


No Place Like Hohm

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kidnapping, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s02e04 The Girl in the Fireplace, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and there is an allusion to a previous instance of someone receiving a drugged drink, drugged drinks, i don't want to tag this under 'roofies' because this is not a date-rape scenario, notes at the end of chapter 4 supply details for anyone who might be concerned, nothing gross or dubconny/nonconny here, though there is a mild instance of, though they were never harmed beyond imbibing said drink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: Maybe she wasn't the most important woman in France, but Rose wasn't bloody expendable, like so much cheap luggage or a forgotten pet.





	1. Chapter 1

Just hours after an encounter with homicidal robots on a 51st-century spaceship, Rose Tyler lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, fidgeting and sleepless as she battled demons of an entirely different sort.

_One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel._

Ugh. Even steeped in misery, Rose managed to muster the energy for rolling her eyes at that syrupy-sweet sentiment. The Doctor was no angel, not by a long shot, not unless one’s definition of “angel” was “someone who thinks that re-using dead bodies is the same thing as recycling” or “someone who neglects to mention that occasionally the artificial gravity goes out on the TARDIS during repairs _but don’t worry, Rose, the nausea will fade after a few minutes—a couple hours—a day or so, tops_.” Reinette would have discovered that on her own soon enough, had she come with them.

Rose grimaced. She didn’t want to think about that, about Reinette left waiting and wanting. Something about it made her feel sick and a little guilty, and she didn’t want to know why.

 _But you and I both know, don’t we, Rose, that the Doctor is worth the monsters_.

Of course, she was right. The Doctor was worth the monsters, and the demons, and the paradoxes and the danger and the homesickness and the fear, not to mention the sleeplessly late nights and far-too-early mornings, the days spent in odd prison cells and dank caves and dark, twisty space stations, and the outrageous amounts of running resulting in even more outrageous amounts of bruises and blisters. Of course the Doctor was worth all of that. Even Mickey—who would never, ever, absolutely-not-in-million-years ever say it—even he knew this was true. But surely it wasn’t acceptable for Reinette to say those things if she hadn’t experienced any of it for herself. Surely she hadn’t earned the right, the privilege.

(How could you fall in love with someone you’d only known for a day?)

With a frustrated sigh, Rose sat up in bed, catching sight of herself in her bedroom mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes traveled over mirror-Rose’s too-bright blonde hair and its tellingly dark roots, her sun-kissed skin, her small breasts framed by broad shoulders. A square chin, big mouth, and prominent teeth drew her eyes upward; no matter how she painted her lashes, no matter how dark or bold, she would never be able to draw attention away from that overbite and sharp jawline. The lips that she used to take pride in, all pink and plump and sweetheart-shaped, now seemed almost comically oversized, practically garish compared to other smaller, more delicate mouths. She pulled her hair into a loose pile atop her head and quickly dropped it. No gentle golden curls or fair porcelain skin or dainty features graced this body. There was no comparison, not really; if she was a bloke, Rose knew which woman she would choose.

But that wasn’t exactly fair, was it? Reinette was so much more than a pretty face. _Accomplished_ , the Doctor had dubbed her. _Her own rooms at the palace_ , _even her own title_. _The Uncrowned Queen_ , he’d said. _Important_ , he’d practically shouted. Rose, on the other hand, was occasionally _charming_ and sometimes _clever_ and, if she was lucky, _beautiful—for a human_.

Rose plucked morosely at her cuticles, sighing at the rough and ragged edges that would surely catch and pull on anything finer than her cheap cotton tee shirt and jeans from the discount bin. Probably Reinette’s cuticles were flawless, just like the rest of her, all soft and delicately translucent. But why wouldn’t they be? She was so perfect, she almost could have been written that way, her every glance, touch, and velvet-voiced word artfully crafted to send hearts all a-flutter. Could Rose really blame anyone for chasing after her, could she really fault anyone who drew toward her like a moth to a flame?

(Only that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Because the Doctor was a fire all on his own, offering warmth and light and heat and hurt in equal measure. Perhaps he sought the company of someone more like himself; maybe he was tired of creatures that so easily burned. And in that way, wasn’t Reinette an ideal companion, didn’t that make her a perfect match?)

Groaning loudly, Rose buried her head in her hands, hating the deluge of self-pity and reveling in its delicious awfulness all at once. It was like a picking at a scab. She knew she should slap on some antiseptic and a bandage and let the wound heal, but it was ever so much more satisfying to just sit there and rip at the wound over and over and over again, savoring the pinch of pain as flesh separated from flesh, relishing the sting of air on raw skin, watching the pink shiny edges pucker and bleed. After all, scabs and blisters and feelings rubbed raw—she could deal with those. The Doctor was always a terrible flirt, and years with Jimmy Stone had taught Rose to harden her heart against the fickle nature of men.

But something was different this time around, and it had slowly crept through the background noise of Rose’s mind, needling its way into her thoughts the moment the Doctor jumped through that time window. It was a thought smaller and darker and more painful than all its other nasty fellows, a tiny sharp-toothed parasite burrowing deep into her chest.

He had abandoned her today. He did it once. _He could do it again_.

Eyes cinched shut, Rose shook her head sharply. No. Maybe she wasn’t the most important woman in France, but she wasn’t bloody expendable, like so much cheap luggage or a forgotten pet. She was so much more than the girl she was when she left behind Jimmy and the Estate, and Mickey was so much more than just the tin dog.

The Doctor wouldn’t desert them again. Rose wouldn’t give him the chance.

Rose stopped fidgeting. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stood up. She drank in a deep, deep breath.

 _Well_ , she thought. _Here goes nothing_.

 

***

 

The Doctor’s ears perked up at the sound of Rose entering the console room, her bare feet _pat-pat-pattering_ softly over the metal grating.

“You’re up early!” he said, tearing his attention away from the diagnostic screen to shoot Rose one of his trademark smiles. He tilted his head to the side, taking in her clothes, the same she had worn the day before. “Or perhaps you’re up late. Bit difficult to tell in a TARDIS, especially when her internal quantum barometer’s been off for a while. Well, maybe a few years. Well, maybe a couple of centuries. No more than a millennia, at least.

“So are you up for another trip already?” he asked.

Rose fiddled with the hem of her top. “Sort of.”

“Excellent!” the Doctor beamed. He stepped slowly in her direction, edging round the console. “What’s your pleasure?” he asked, flipping a switch. “The infinite beaches of Kabos Prime?”

He pushed a button. “The singing forests of Tharvis?”

He pulled a lever. “The pirate court of Madame Ching Shih?”

The Doctor leaned forward, bridging much of the distance between their bodies, to conspiratorially whisper, “Or maybe the bioluminescent oceans of Astrion? Ooh, now that’s a good one. Go back about, oh, eighty-thousand years, there’s not another living soul in sight, just millions upon millions of tiny glowing jellyfish floating about in the deep, black sea, like stars against a midnight sky.”

Rose stared up at him with round, dark eyes, but didn’t say anything. Unusual, that, but perhaps she was still a bit sleepy. The Doctor, however, was not sleepy, and longed for a distraction of some kind. Any kind. He wasn’t particularly picky. He just didn’t want to be left alone with only his thoughts for company. That sounded absolutely horrendous.

“What do you think?” he prompted with another mischievous grin—it was, he’d quickly learned, the fastest way to win Rose over in this new body of his.

“I think…”

Rose exhaled loudly. “I think I’d like to go home.”

The Doctor blinked. “You are home,” he said, frowning. “The TARDIS is your home.”

“Yeah, but for how much longer?”

Scratching the back of his neck, the Doctor averted his gaze. “I don’t see any reason to put a label on such things.”

“Why not? Seems like a useful thing for an expiration date.”

“That’s a rather macabre way to look at it,” the Doctor said slowly.

Rose laughed. “But all good things, eh?”

The Doctor frowned at her again. “Is it just me, or are we having two completely separate conversations? Not that I mind, only it isn’t typically human custom.” His face brightened. “Now, if you’d like to take a trip to Pyrethea, we could meet the two-headed Pyretheans and have ourselves some very interesting two, three, and four-way chats—”

“No. I want to go _home_ ,” said Rose.

Something about the look on her face, the pinch of her mouth and set of her jaw, filled the Doctor with unease. He felt certain he was missing something here, a nasty little pesky thing nagging just beneath the surface, but he couldn’t think of what it might be. Nor, really, did he care to examine it all that much.

The Doctor masked his sudden discomfit by turning away, fiddling with a dial on the console, pretending to adjust this and that. “Got it,” he replied. “Home. Where the heart is. Where you hang your hat. No place like it.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he shot Rose a tight smile. “Threw me a bit off guard, I suppose, but it’s not entirely unexpected. Though I’ll admit, I figured you would want to wait a little longer between visits. Seems like the last one wasn’t all that long ago. But the TARDIS could probably stand to be refueled anyway.

“All right,” he continued, clapping his hands together. “A brief shore visit, it is!”

“No,” Rose said, and, faltering, she shifted her gaze to the floor, where her toes were turning pink with cold. “I don’t mean it like that,” she said, to her feet more than anyone else. “I mean…”

She visibly braced herself, her eyes shuttering closed. “I mean I need to go home.”

Oh, the Doctor didn’t like the sound of that. It made his throat clench uncomfortably, set tiny alarm bells ringing in his head and squeezed something in his chest, maybe twisting a bit for good measure.

(Did she really have to do this now? Especially after…)

“For good?” he asked lightly.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I hope not. I just need to go and think for a while, get my head on straight.”

“Well, I don’t know if you need to home for little old that. Lots of places to go thinking on the TARDIS, aren’t there? Library, drawing room, garden, pool—or if you’re feeling overly literal, we could even go watch Rodin work on his most famous sculpture—”

“No,” Rose said again, sharper this time. “I don’t want to see any sculptures, I don’t want to see any pirates, and I don’t want to hole up and hide on the TARDIS. I need to go home, Doctor.”

Dumbfounded, the Doctor fell quiet. Tense silence hung in the air between them, thick and impossibly opaque. The Doctor wondered how this conversation had got so far away from him, what on earth Rose could be on about. She had seemed perfectly fine earlier in the day. And surely nothing significant had happened just in the last few hours. But she didn’t seem eager to explain, so he shouldn’t ask. Right? If she wanted to talk about it, she would say something. She usually did. Didn’t she?

“Okay, then,” the Doctor said, nonplussed. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Okay,” Rose agreed.

The Doctor cast about for anything else he could say, but the nets came back empty. And Rose didn’t offer anything either. She was, once again, unusually quiet.

He did not care for this turn of events. Did not care for them one whit. The Doctor had no desire to be alone again. He especially did not wish to be alone after everything that had happened in—after everything that had just happened. And no, Mickey the Idiot did not, in any way, count as adequate company. He would certainly be no replacement for Rose Tyler.

The Doctor briefly entertained the notion of refusing, of chit-chattering until he wore her out, or taking a page out of his previous incarnation’s book and just putting his foot down. He could do it. It was his ship, for goodness’ sake. He could bloody well take it wherever he wanted. But something in his gut told him that was the wrong approach here, that the determination hiding behind the tiredness in Rose’s eyes wouldn’t be so easily swayed. He knew that stubbornness all too well. And worse, he knew he wouldn’t win against it. Didn’t even have a fighting chance.

(Daleks, Autons, even mad Time Lords hardly presented a challenge, but one look at that face—right, that one, with the furrowed brow and slight pout—and he crumpled. It was ridiculous, honestly. Inexcusable.

Unless…)

“Very well,” the Doctor said. “If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. I’ll take you to home first thing in the morning.”

Rose hesitated, as if she might say something else, but she closed her mouth and simply issued a tight nod.

The moment she turned to leave, the Doctor indulged in a sly little smile.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t want to give in to the Doctor’s manipulative tactics. (All the same, she had to admit she was curious about why he might be trying to manipulate her.)

Rose stared.

This was not home.

The landscape outside the TARDIS was utterly unfamiliar. Instead of the usual cracked asphalt and grey estate buildings and rubbish bins pushed up against graffitied walls, Rose found herself staring out at a colorful cobblestoned street, surrounded by the walls of a huge, sprawling ivory-white city. Its willowy tall structures sat stark against a jewel-blue morning sky, spires reaching and twisting into cotton clouds up above. Strung across ramparts and between walls, paper streamers and lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Three moons glistened overhead, only just visible in the sunlight.

“What’s this?” Rose asked, turning to the Doctor. “This isn’t home.”

“Of course it is, what are you talking about?” the Doctor replied, leaning back against the TARDIS.

“What are _you_ talking about?” Rose shot back.

“This is the planet Hohm.”

“The _planet_ —?”

“Aww, yes, an alien planet!” said Mickey, stepping out of the TARDIS with a great grin on his face. His eyes grew huge, taking in the sights all around them. “This is an actual alien planet, right? Tell me it’s an alien planet!”

“This, my incredibly perceptive Mr. Smith, is an alien planet!” the Doctor said happily, clapping Mickey on the back. “Or alien to you, anyway. I’m sure it’s rather domestic to everyone who calls it home. But don’t worry, we’ll blend right in. In addition to the native Hohmish (horse people, can’t miss ‘em), they’ve got a healthy blend of humans and humanoids here—you lot, really, you end up everywhere—even if a couple generations of species-mixing has given half the lot a bunch of tails and nictating membranes.”

“Nic-whatting what-what’s?” Mickey asked.

“The planet Hohm!” the Doctor continued, one hand sweeping wide in a gesture that encapsulated the city before them. “Seventh-largest planet in the Uraael cluster, about four-thousand years in your future.”

“Excellent,” Mickey breathed, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Rose told the Doctor. “You said you’d take me home!”

“No, I said I would take you _to Hohm_ ,” the Doctor replied.

Rose glared at him.

“No place like it,” the Doctor said with a wink.

“Doctor,” Rose said through gritted teeth, “Take me back home. To my actual home. On Earth. In the Milky Way galaxy. Please.”

“Oh, come on. Where’s the fun in that?” the Doctor asked, looping an arm around Mickey. “Just look at Mr. Mickety-Mick here. It’s his first alien planet. We haven’t even done anything yet and already he’s having the time of his life! You don’t want to deprive him of that, do you?”

“So bring him back after you drop me off!”

“Yeah, but it’s never really the same, is it?” the Doctor argued, pulling his ear. “You know how it is, Rose. You step out of the TARDIS on a new planet for the first time, it’s sort of magical, isn’t it?”

He jostled Mickey, who was still drinking everything in with a face full of awe. “Isn’t it, Mickey?”

“Uh-huh,” Mickey said absentmindedly, because—as if on cue—people were starting to emerge from their homes in the city, venturing out to begin their day. And Rose had to admit, the scene was pretty spectacular: while many of the people looked human (or near enough, anyway), at least half of the crowd sported four legs, not two, and their bottom halves were, as the Doctor had said, decidedly horse-like.

“Holy hell, they’re centaurs,” Mickey said, gaping at the thickening crowd. “They’re real-life, honest-to-god centaurs!”

“Magic, indeed!” the Doctor said with a laugh.

Dozens of people filtered around them, and soon the streets were full of Hohmish people and humans alike, feet and hooves clattering over the cobblestones. The city-dwellers opened stores and set up streetside booths, tugged their children along in droves, trucked worktools and fruit and goods through the streets on rickety wooden carts. Soon, the sound of metal clanging on metal could be heard through the open doorways of blacksmiths’ shops, and vendors started extolling the virtues of their wares, waving flowers or bolts of cloth or joints of glistening meat in an effort to entice passersby. Greeting each other, haggling over prices, and generally hustling and bustling about, the people and their city reminded Rose very strongly of their recent trip to ancient Rome.

Rose felt the Doctor’s gaze on her, but he glanced away as soon as their eyes met, absorbing himself in the sights and sounds all around them.

What on earth was running through his head, Rose wondered?

The question dissipated into the ether the moment a pretty young woman approached them, shyly holding a flame-orange flower out in front of her. She extended the flower out to Mickey with a smile. Confused and delighted alike, Mickey reached out to accept the gift. “Thanks,” he said, and even if she hadn’t been staring right at him, Rose could tell from the warmth of his tone that a blush was creeping up his neck to his ears. The young woman merely ducked her head and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Mickey turned back to Rose and the Doctor with a triumphant grin. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

“It’s definitely your color,” Rose teased him, despite herself.

Nodding, Mickey tucked the flower into his jacket-pocket, where it peered out proudly just under his lapel. “Yeah, it is!” he said, beaming.

“The Hohmish are well-known for their generosity and welcoming nature,” the Doctor said. “You sure you don’t want to stay for just a little bit, Rose? Sample some of that famous hospitality for yourself?”

“And maybe some of that beer, while we’re at it,” Mickey added, pointing at a tavern just down the street, where patrons drank tankards of something fizzy and blue. “Come on, Rose. It’s my first alien planet!”

“Yeah, Rose,” the Doctor echoed. “It’s his first alien planet!”

Rose hesitated. She wanted to go home. She really did. She needed some space, and a breath of fresh air, and a chance to really think about things; she wanted to see her mum, catch up with Shareen, snuggle into her old bed in her old room. And she didn’t want to give in to the Doctor’s manipulative tactics.

All the same, she had to admit she was curious about _why_ he might be trying to manipulate her.

“One day,” she said grudgingly. “One day, and then I go back to the estate, for as long as I want. Okay?”

“Okay!” Mickey blurted before darting into the crowd.

“Okay?” Rose prompted the Doctor.

He nodded, a small but knowing smile playing across his face. “Okay.”

 

***

 

He could get used to this traveling-through-time-and-space stuff, Mickey thought.

He wandered through the market along with Rose, the two of them listening to the Doctor as he babbled about this and that, listing off local history and customs and traditions and commerce and trade routes and the value and many uses of Uraalean ore and it was all rather quaint, wasn’t it, that the locals seemed so pleased with their modest lifestyles given the literal goldmine just beneath their feet? Whether or not the Doctor noticed the extent to which Mickey and Rose’s eyes had glazed over was anyone’s guess, but he perked up Mickey’s attention right away by pointing out a booth selling tiny white “concentration chips”—fantastic for defeating the final boss in a video game, the Doctor explained under his breath.

“Do they work?” Mickey asked, holding one of the chips up to the light of the sun.

“Indeed they do,” replied the Doctor, “if you don’t mind an aftertaste of spoiled cabbage.”

Mickey wrinkled his nose, and traded in his watch for a handful.

Strolling amongst the food stalls, Rose drew from her well of experience in otherworldly markets and helped Mickey pick and choose exotic treats to try. Mickey looked over baskets of golden-yellow berries and strings of brown and white bulbs and skewers of meat, sampled Hohmish candies and meat-pies and spiny green fruit and some kind of tuber slathered in gravy. Mickey and Rose shared a frothy beverage served out of a bumpy mottled husk, and all three companions tried some of the blue fizzy beer; Mickey was pleased to discover that it tasted vaguely of strawberries and mangoes.

“Like they had a delicious liquid baby together,” Mickey decided.

“Infinitely preferable to most other beers,” the Doctor agreed. “Especially what they served in ancient Egypt. Nasty stuff, you should try it sometime.”

After that, they stopped and watched a street performance, a mini-circus replete with jugglers and dancers and acrobats, all of them jumping and whirling, prancing and singing, their voices and faces young and beautiful and rich. The Doctor somehow procured some coins for Mickey to toss their way, and when he dropped the coins at their feet, more than one of the performers sent a flirtatious smile or wink in his direction, along with a smattering of orange flowers.

So the Hohmish people had good taste. Good to know.

“What do you know about this?” Mickey asked the Doctor, brandishing a poster at him. He pointed to the spear-wielding figures on the front, to the dragonlike creature hovering menacingly over them.

Eyebrow piqued, the Doctor slipped on his spectacles, examining the poster. “It’s a championship,” he explained. “Sort of like Hohm’s version of the Olympics, but anyone can participate. It’s essentially an excuse for a bunch of people to beat each other over the head with sticks and swords.”

“So like a tournament.”

“Exactly like a tournament,” the Doctor replied, pocketing his spectacles. “Why do you ask?”

“Why do you think? We should go to it!” Mickey said excitedly.

“Whatever for?”

Mickey pointed to the poster again. “ _Dragon_. Do I need to say anything else?”

“Eh,” the Doctor said. “After your first half-dozen encounters with dragons, the novelty sort of wears off. Besides, they haven’t got dragons here. That’s just an illustrative hyperbole designed to sucker people into going.”

Grumping under his breath, Mickey stuck the poster back on the wall where he’d found it. “Bet there is so a dragon,” he mumbled, but Rose and the Doctor had already moved on.

Soon they stopped in a games-parlor, where dice rolled freely and smoke hung thick in the air. The room echoed with the sounds of whoops and cheers and stomping feet and hooves, a small crowd of onlookers clustered at the back to bet on two centaurs grappling each other by the shoulders and flanks. Mickey quickly grew bored of the wrestling match and opted to play cards instead, listening intently as the Doctor explained the rules of the local game. Neither Mickey nor Rose lasted very long—Mickey lost half of his concentration chips, to his dismay—but the Doctor fared quite well. He did so well, in fact, that he claimed much of the locals’ petty cash and any baubles they had in their pockets besides, and the three of them were chased out of the parlor amidst insults and shouts. Mickey and the Doctor laughed the whole time.

Rose didn’t laugh. She smiled, but it was less than genuine, her eyes a little duller than usual, and the longer the day wore on, the more she seemed to trail behind Mickey and the Doctor. Mickey was almost surprised that the Doctor didn’t say anything, but it was starting to feel like he and Rose were engaged in some strange silent battle to see who could ignore each other the longest, and Mickey wasn’t about to disrupt it. He only wished he’d brought along some popcorn for the show.

Still, Mickey couldn’t help but notice that just after he caught sight of Rose yawning, the Doctor was quick to arrange some transportation for them.

“They’re called ‘Herdbeasts.’ The Hohmish aren’t terribly clever with their nomenclature, are they?” said the Doctor, and the vendor shot him a dirty look.

The two Herdbeasts were huge, covered in coarse shaggy fur and adorned with giant horns curling around their ears. Riding the massive animals through town, Mickey, Rose, and the Doctor easily sat head and shoulders above everyone else. And, Mickey noted with huge satisfaction, Rose had chosen to ride with him, not the Doctor.

Oh, maybe Mickey Smith wasn’t as impressive as Mr. High-and-Mighty-Time-Lord over there, but he certainly wasn’t as big of an ass, either. He would never leave his friends behind just to snog some bird back in the bloody blooming Renaissance, no matter how rich or pretty she was. No, sir, he would not.

Leaning back, Mickey reveled in the warmth of the sun on his face. He loved this, the strange newness of everything, the tingling anticipation and excitement of it all. He drank in the headiness of scents unfamiliar and utterly alien, the smells of people and animals mingling with spices and perfumes and roasting meat, and he closed his eyes in satisfaction. Everything was going splendidly. He was on a fascinating planet, many pretty people continued to make eyes at him, and the Doctor was no better than anyone else, just as Mickey had been saying all along.

His _I told you so_ dance was getting longer and longer by the minute.

 

***

 

The Doctor protested that it wasn’t _dancing_ in the strictest terms—at least, not in the way that Rose and Mickey were thinking—but Rose brightened when she saw the Temple of Dance, and besides, the Doctor was never one to refuse a new cultural experience for his companions. But he drew the line at being pulled onto the dance floor himself, and that was how he found himself bored out of his mind in a Hohmish temple booth, stuck in a room full of people, and yet, somehow, still utterly alone.

No, wait. He wasn’t alone. He was sitting opposite Mickey Smith, Idiot at Large, whose head and neck were adorned with wreaths of orange flowers, his person surrounded by several laughing young ladies, each of them latched onto his every word. It was far, far worse than being alone.

The Doctor ignored Mickey’s terrible jokes and even worse pick-up lines and watched the supplicants on the dance floor instead. Their bodies moved like flames, twist-jump-flickering about the place, hair and skin flashing gold in the lamplight. The dance was purely for tradition’s sake, hearkening back to the days when such things would have been offered in earnest to a local deity in exchange for favors, but it was pretty nonetheless, and if such gods had ever existed, they would surely be pleased. The Doctor turned to Rose to explain the meaning of the offering to her, but of course she wasn’t sitting next to him, she was dancing up there with the rest of them, picking up dance moves and accepting flowers from friendly locals.

Her eyes crinkled with laughter when she bumped into a centaur fellow and his human friend. They both returned the laugh and the three of them chatted as they danced.

“Uh-oh,” Mickey laughed from across the table. “Looks like someone’s moving in on your territory!”

“Sorry?” the Doctor asked.

“I said, looks like someone’s making a move on your girl!”

“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about,” the Doctor said, sparing Mickey a glance before turning back to Rose and her new friends.

“Right, so I guess it’s not working, then?” Mickey asked. He took a swig of ale from his tankard before passing it off to one of his admirers, who handed him a flower in return.

The Doctor arched an eyebrow at him in confusion. “Is what working?”

“Her plan. Is it working, or what? You gonna tell me Time Lords don’t get that way?”

The Doctor’s eyebrow arched even higher. “What way?”

“Oh, come on,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. “You can’t honestly be that thick. You abandon her to go shag Frenchie, she goes dirty dancing with some alien pretty boys—it’s classic. Now you go after her, and the two of you make nice.”

He grew stern. “You do want to make nice, don’t you?”

“Good grief, but you’re just uttering a bunch of nonsense right now,” the Doctor laughed. He turned back to the dance floor to see Rose accepting a goblet of libations from her new centaur friend. Harmless stuff, he was sure.

“I’m serious, Doctor,” Mickey told him, looping an arm around one of his companions. “I know you think you’re all magnificent and a genius and The Best Thing That Ever Happened in the History of Ever, but even you won’t be able to keep Rose on the TARDIS if you don’t go over there and apologize to her.”

“Sorry, Mickey, but I still haven’t got the faintest clue what you’re on about.”

Mickey laughed. “You,” he said, his speech punctuated with a hearty guffaw, “are quite possibly the stupidest bloke I’ve ever met.”

The Doctor didn’t respond; he was too absorbed in watching Rose interact with her new friends. He didn’t see anything wrong with it. Yes, she seemed more animated and engaged than she had all day, and yes, she was smiling broadly, and yes, it did appear to be the smile she normally reserved for the Doctor, with her tongue poking out playfully between her teeth. But all of that was fine, nothing to worry about. It certainly didn’t concern him when the human fellow tucked a flower behind Rose’s ear, and it didn’t bother him at all when Rose placed the centaur’s hands on her hips. And when the centaur pecked a kiss on her cheek, the Doctor definitely did not glare.

“Now you’re getting it,” said Mickey, nodding.

“There’s no ‘it’ to get,” the Doctor replied, downing the last of his ale before he pushed up from the booth. “All the same,” he said, straightening his coat, “Probably best to go retrieve her, make it back to the TARDIS before nightfall.”

“Uh-huh,” Mickey’s voice drifted after him, heavy with sarcasm, but the Doctor ignored it. He pushed through the teeming mass of bodies, leaving apologies and excuses in his wake. He watched as a priestess handed Rose another pair of drinks; when Rose passed one over to the centaur bloke, his fingers briefly closed around hers on the cup.

Not that the Doctor cared. Because he didn’t.

“Rose,” he shouted over the noise, tapping her arm. She was laughing again, giggling at something the centaur had said, _again_ , and she greeted the Doctor with a smile.

“Come dance with me!” she said, draping her hands over the Doctor’s shoulders.

He shook his head. “I was thinking we should head out, actually.”

“Why?”

“It’s getting late. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

 “You’ve got a time machine,” Rose pointed out, her hips swaying to the music. “We’ll be fine!”

When the Doctor didn’t immediately respond, Rose’s fingers wandered down his chest, flitting to his necktie. The Doctor froze, suddenly strangely warm and unable to move as Rose pulled herself closer.

“Dance with me,” she said again, softer this time.

The Doctor swallowed. Standing this close, he could count her eyelashes, see her pupils dilating in the low light, smell the sweet scent of wine on her lips. He could practically taste it.

(A little bold of her, wasn’t it? But maybe after their last few adventures…)

He cleared his throat. “I think Mickey’s ready to leave.”

“I think he’ll be all right,” Rose laughed.

Sighing, the Doctor slipped Rose’s hands off his necktie, wrapped his fingers around hers instead. “Come on,” he said, pulling. “Let’s just go.”

“Whoa there,” Rose’s centaur friend said, stepping in. “Getting a bit hands-on, are we?”

“No, sorry Geoffrynn, he’s all right—”

“I’m no more hands-on than anyone else in here,” the Doctor interrupted smoothly. “Only I generally don’t make a display of it for everyone to see.”

Rose’s brow furrowed. “You got a problem?” she half-laughed, half-challenged.

“Nope,” the Doctor replied, his voice easy and calm. “Just saying that you’ve made your point, and now it’s time to go.”

He started to walk away, pulling Rose after him, but she did not move.

“If he’s giving you trouble…” Geoffrynn started to say.

“Thanks, but I’m okay,” Rose told him with a winning smile; Geoffrynn shrugged and trotted away. When Rose turned back to the Doctor, the smile vanished from her face as if it had never been there. “What do you mean, _I’ve made my point_?”

“I understand that you’ve been experiencing some feelings of jealousy,” the Doctor explained patiently.

Rose’s eyes widened at that and her mouth fell open. Her cheeks and chest, already flushed from all of her dancing and laughing and drinking, flushed just a little bit more, growing pink all over. The Doctor decided to keep going, since this seemed to be a good indication that he was on the right track.

“This isn’t a criticism. Jealousy is a perfectly natural feeling. Two people, traveling together for a long time—it only makes sense that feelings of a certain nature would start to develop in one direction or another,” he continued. “And you can hardly be blamed; I’m rather fit this time around, after all. And my hair is quite magnificent, and I don’t half look good in a tight pair of trousers.”

“I don’t…” Rose said, but whatever it was she didn’t, her mouth couldn’t seem to elaborate.

“But you should know that you and your wellbeing are very important to me,” the Doctor assured her kindly. “As is always the case with my companions. So you don’t need to make an exhibit of yourself to get my attention.”

Rose’s mouth snapped shut and something flashed in her eyes.

“Now,” the Doctor said, pleased with himself for a situation well-handled. “Shall we?”

He tugged her hand again, only to feel her fingers go limp between his. Frowning, he looked down to see that she had let go of his hand, and was withdrawing hers entirely, curling it back to the safety of her own body. When he looked up again, the expression on Rose’s face startled him.

Ah. Anger. That was definitely anger. And a lot of it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Rose snapped. “God, you really are an alien!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing! This—” Rose shouted as she gestured, causing several nearby dancers to jump in surprise, “—has got nothing to do with you. I just wanted to have a little fun, maybe have a drink!”

“Perhaps, but Mickey said—”

“Mickey, as you are always so eager to point out, is kind of an idiot sometimes,” Rose snapped. “The universe doesn’t always revolve around you, all right? And neither do I. Get over yourself!”

The Doctor tossed up both of his palms in an expression of surrender. “Clearly I misunderstood. I apologize.” He stepped away, shaking his head, uncertain of where he’d gone wrong.

“Unbelievable git,” he heard Rose mutter behind his back.

He stopped in his tracks. “Beg your pardon?” he asked, turning around.

Rose threw her hands in the air. “You can apologize for making a stupid assumption, but you can’t say you’re sorry for abandoning Mickey and me?”

“Abandoning? What are you talking about?”

Laughing, Rose shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing! Let’s just sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. Just like we do with everything else!”

“All right,” the Doctor said, his temper rising. His hands clenched into fists, working to shut things down before he could erupt. “That’s fine with me.”

“All right, then!” Rose replied.

“Fine!” the Doctor said loudly.

“Great!” Rose added.

“Bloody marvelous!” the Doctor shouted.

The temple fell silent all around them. Even Mickey and his entourage had gone quiet, the women staring at them with open mouths and curious eyes, Mickey watching with a look of absolute glee. The Doctor fidgeted uncomfortably when he realized that they weren’t the only ones watching—all eyes had turned their way. He chanced a glance at Rose. She crossed her arms, suddenly very interested in something on the ground.

Eventually, blessedly, background noise began trickling back in, the temple refilling with the sounds of chatter and singing. Rose and the Doctor very carefully did not look at each other.

“Head on back to the TARDIS if you like,” Rose said after a moment. “I’m going to stay out for a bit.”

“Yes, I think I will. And you and Mickey are welcome to join me…” the Doctor said, gesturing halfheartedly, “…just whenever you want.”

“We will.” Rose looked up at him, fixing him with a hard stare. “And then you’re taking me home tomorrow.”

The Doctor drew in a deep breath. “If that’s what you want.”

“Seems like it’s what _you_ want.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to argue—no, that wasn’t what he wanted, what in the galaxy would make her think that, surely she couldn’t be that stupid, surely she could see that he’d planned this whole thing just to—

He stopped himself. A petty little spark of pride had snuck up and seized his tongue, stealing his words from him.

“All right,” he said, and he started to walk away.

“Fine,” Rose replied, and she took a step too.

“Great,” the Doctor turned around to counter.

Rose whirled back around and marched right up to him. “Bloody marvelous,” she hissed in his face.

The two of them glared at each other. Both pairs of eyes narrowed.

Surprising. They could never usually hold each other’s gaze this long. But she wasn’t backing down, so neither would he.

After a moment, the Doctor was tempted to declare himself the winner of this unofficial little staring contest, because although Rose Tyler was a stubborn thing, she had developed quite the promising twitch in her cheek. But then, quite by accident, the Doctor blinked.

Rose smirked. The Doctor cursed his superior biology.

Each of them turned on their heel and stomped away.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose laughed nastily. “Yeah, sure. Everything’s all right. Everything’s always all right.”

“Is everything all right?” Geoffrynn asked when Rose stormed back into the Temple, his brow furrowing in concern.

Rose laughed nastily. “Yeah, sure. Everything’s all right. Everything’s always all right.”

“You sure?” Geoffrynn’s friend—whatsisname, Rose was having trouble recalling it right now—asked with a chuckle. “Seems like your boyfriend—”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Rose snapped, bristling.

The nameless bloke grinned. “Good to know,” he said, extending cups full of liquor to both her and Geoffrynn.

“Bottoms up,” Geoffrynn said with an uneasy smile, but before any of them had time to react, Rose grabbed both cups, downing their contents in two loud gulps one right after the other. She ignored how her companions’ eyes went wide in response, closed her own eyes as her head went a bit swimmy.

“Right,” she slurred, swaying on her feet only a little bit. “We gonna dance again, or do you lot want to waste your time talking?”

 

**

 

Later, Mickey would curse himself for being so stupid.

“So what’re these all about?” he asked one of the ladies curled up next to him, a gorgeous gal with luscious black locks and almost unnaturally blue eyes.

She smiled beatifically at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

With a drunken laugh—well, he wasn’t entirely drunk, just a little sloshed, hadn’t thrown back nearly as much as Rose up there, had he?—Mickey suddenly remembered that, when asking a question, it usually helps to let the other party know exactly what you’re asking about, doesn’t it?

He plucked one of his many orange flowers from its place off the table. “These,” he said. “I’ve been getting them all day.”

“Indeed you have,” one of his other newfound friends replied, leaning in close. “You’re quite the prize.”

“Awww, thanks babe,” Mickey said, beaming as he looped his arm around her.

“So do you have a preferred Champion?”

Mickey blinked, waiting for the words to sink in, for any meaning or significance to sink in with them. But his brain remained pleasantly empty, filled with nothing but a vague and blurry sense of contentment. “Have I got a what-now?”

Everyone in his entourage let out a giggle, each woman hiding her laugh behind a beautiful dainty hand. “A preferred Champion,” one of the women repeated. “Someone you would like to win.”

“Win what?” Mickey asked, swigging another drink from his tankard.

“Well, you, of course.”

Mickey promptly choked on his beer. “Huh?” he spluttered.

“Well, that’s the whole reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

Shaking his head, Mickey set his tankard down on the table with a loud _clunk_. “Okay, I’m a little confused—”

“Too much libation will do that to you,” one of the ladies said with a wink.

“No, I’m not drunk—well, only a little—I’m just confused about this whole _winning_ thing,” Mickey explained. “There’s been some sort of mistake or something. You can’t _win_ me.”

Giggling again, some of the women exchanged glances with each other. “Poor thing’s already forgotten himself,” one of them sighed. “Why can’t the pretty ones hold their liquor?”

“See here, sweetheart,” said the black-haired woman very patiently. “The only reason offworlders come to Hohm is to partake in the Championship Tour. And you can either play to win, or you can play to be won.”

She plucked an orange flower off the table and twirled it round between her delicate fingers. “And since you’ve accepted all of our tokens, and journeyed to our temple, and drunk of our cups, that means…”

The woman smiled, and chills ran down Mickey’s spine at the sight of her very even, very white teeth flashing in the torchlight. “…we get to hunt you.”

“Nope!” Mickey squeaked, shooting up from his seat, his body in motion before his brain had a chance to catch up. He tried to leave the booth but, upon finding many female bodies unbudgingly in his way, opted to climb over the table instead, ignoring the cries of outrage as he trampled flowers and knocked over goblets and mugs. “Nope, nope! I didn’t sign up for this! Nobody warned me about grabby ladies and surprise cannibalism!”

“Well of course we’re not going to eat you, darling!” shouted one of the women. “We want to wed and breed!”

“That isn’t any better!” Mickey shouted back.

Dozens of hands reached out to grab him and Mickey yelled out in alarm, turning to run. But he couldn’t have taken more than three stumbling steps before he ran facefirst into a brick wall.

No, wait, that wasn’t a wall at all—that was a _bloke_. An extremely solid, muscular, painted-gold-for-some-reason, brick-wall-like bloke.

“Sorry,” Mickey tried to say, but a pair of beefy hands seizing him by the jacket cut him off. Mickey tried to fight back, grabbing the bloke by the wrists, kicking at his shins, but the fellow didn’t move, didn’t even blink, and maybe Mickey was drunker than he thought because everything he did was so bloody _slow_ , and for goodness’ sake, why didn’t he know what to do, why hadn’t he got into more fights before this?

A memory swam into his head just then, of primary school and a football indoors and a broken china teapot, the sound of Jackie’s shrill and irritated shouts and the feel of her hand grasping his jacket-collar, and god, he was going to have to give her a hundred hugs the next time he saw her, because even if she’d given him a good scolding afterward until he thought his ears would bleed, Jackie had, unknowingly, prepared him for this very moment.

Releasing his captor’s wrists, Mickey raised his arms. He went limp and slid out of his jacket onto the floor.

Amidst angry shrieks from the temple around him, Mickey rolled over just in time to dodge a swipe from the gold-painted bloke. He sprang to his feet and darted toward the dance floor, frantically scanning the crowd for Rose.

“Rose!” he shouted. “Rose, we’ve got to run! They’re coming after me—where are you?”

Then he found her, and it was like every drop of blood drained from his head, leaving him ice-cold.

A gold-painted bloke carried her out the door. But she didn’t fight back. Didn’t kick, didn’t scream, didn’t even move. She dangled, blindfolded, over his shoulder, just hanging limp and lifeless like a rag doll.

Mickey stepped forward, but there was nothing he could do. At least twenty people stood between him and Rose’s captor, human and horse-persons and gold muscle-men alike, and his wannabe-future-wives were slowly closing in on him.

As much as he hated to admit it…he couldn’t do this alone. He needed the Doctor.

Mickey turned and ran.

 

***

 

The Doctor had only just shed his coat and thrown it over the ramparts, sliding beneath the console to rework some troublesome time rotor configurates, when the sound of frantic hammering drifted toward him from the TARDIS doors.

A smug little grin crept across his face. Clearly, Rose had forgotten her key—yet again, good grief, he didn’t know how many times he’d had to remind her to bring it along—and now she wanted back in. Probably so that she could apologize. Yes, apologize, that sounded right—apologize for her strange behavior, and threatening to leave him for no good reason, none at all, and probably she expected him to come running.

Well, tough.

“What, back already?” he called, pushing up and sauntering down the stairs. “Are you sure you want to come back so soon? What about poor Geoffrynn, out there all on his own?”

No voice came back to greet him, just the sound of more knocking, knuckles rapping hollowly over the doors.

“Hang on, give a fellow a minute,” the Doctor said. Since when was Rose so impatient?

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, stowing his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I’ll just leave the doors locked, let you stay with Mr. Geoffrynn tonight,” the Doctor called out. Then, mumbling darkly under his breath, “Bet _Geoffrynn_ hasn’t got a time machine, though. Bet _Geoffrynn_ can’t transport you to the very edges of time and space. Bet _Geoffrynn’s_ head is full of nothing but beer and spiderwebs.”

“Doctor!” a desperate voice shouted, and the Doctor frowned. That voice did not belong to Rose. He strode over to the doors and flung them open to find Mickey standing there, propping himself up against the TARDIS for support as he panted, out of breath.

“Oh,” the Doctor said, unimpressed. “It’s you.”

“And a happy sod-off to you too,” Mickey said between gasps. “Listen—”

“But where’s your entourage?” the Doctor asked, poking his head out of the TARDIS, scanning the twilit streets. “Thought you’d be off Captain Kirk-ing about the place by now.”

“Doctor—”

“Oh no, did they leave?” the Doctor asked gleefully. “Did they leave poor Mickey all by his lonesome? Poor ickle Mickey? Is poor ickle Mickey in a bit of a pickle? Poor ickle Mickey in a bit of a sticky pickle—”

“ _Doctor!_ ”

“What?” the Doctor asked with a grin.

“It’s Rose,” Mickey wheezed. “They’ve taken her.”

The Doctor’s grin faded away, and he watched as Mickey shrank back in alarm. When the Doctor next spoke, his voice came out oddly calm, for all that it felt sharp and deadly.

“What?” the Doctor asked again.

 

***

 

Rose was standing and talking to Geoffrynn, until all of a sudden, she wasn’t.

For a moment, there was nothing. No Temple, no dancers, no music; no light, no dark, no dreams. There wasn’t even Rose Tyler. She just _was_ , light and drifting in a colorless void.

Then she was moving, flying or floating or—no, riding. She was riding. Lying down and riding. In a boat? Surely not, though it felt like coarse wood beneath her hands, and the vessel pitched like a ship on choppy waves. It bounced and rattled underneath her. She was fairly certain ships didn’t rattle, though. But to be fair, she wouldn’t trust anything that she was certain of at this point, not even her own name.

(But the _clackety-clack_ beneath her reminded her of hooves on roads or wheels on stones and remember that time with the queen and the werewolf, remember the diamond and the moon? And there was a man, and he’d saved her…or had she saved herself?)

Rose turned her head. Something obscured her vision, something soft and inconvenient tied snug over her eyes, but there were other people on this cart with her. (A cart. A wheelbarrow? A carriage? She wondered how long she had until midnight, if things turned into pumpkins even on Hohm.) Opening her mouth, Rose tried to ask if everyone else was all right—she couldn’t see her fellow passengers, but she could sense them, feel the weight of their bodies and warmth of their breath—but no voice emerged, and her eyes were heavy, oh so heavy, and sleep sounded like the most delicious thing in the world.

(But it didn’t make sense; she never touched a spindle, and there were no briars anywhere to be seen.)

Her eyes rolled back and darkness claimed her.

 

***

 

The Doctor ran toward the temple, thoughts and hearts racing, his plimsolls slapping loudly over the cobblestone street.

 _It’s Rose…They’ve taken her_. Mickey’s words played in his head, over and over again, skipping like a broken record in time to the beat of his feet on the road.

Grinding to a halt just outside the temple, the Doctor found Geoffrynn lounging outside, talking and laughing with some of his fellow dancers.

“Excuse me,” the Doctor called over the crowd bustling around him. “I don’t suppose you would happen to know—”

“Nope, sorry,” said Geoffrynn, just a little too quickly.

The Doctor’s brow furrowed in suspicion. “How do you know what I was going to ask?”

Geoffrynn didn’t reply, but his tail flicked nervously; his gaze shifted from the Doctor’s face to something behind him, just over his shoulder— and as far as the Doctor was concerned, that was answer enough. The Doctor whirled around to see what he was looking at.

Two giant, gold-gilded Herdbeasts, helmed by a pair of muscular gold-painted men, pulled a golden carriage down the street several blocks up ahead. Through the windows, the Doctor could just make out the dark and muddy shapes of people, one of whom had hair in a suspicious shade of blonde.

The Doctor froze. He’d spent enough time with that unnaturally yellow hair and its owner that he’d recognize it anywhere.

“Rose!” he shouted. “Wait, stop!” But his words were useless; the carriage was soon swallowed up by the city.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor dimly heard Geoffrynn whisper behind him. “I couldn’t—”

He took off running.

The Doctor sprinted at top speed, running as quickly as his considerably fast legs would take him. Ignoring all protests that flew his way, he pushed and elbowed his way through the thickening crowd. Up ahead, people parted like the Red Sea, bowing their heads in deference to the carriage and its inhabitants, but they closed ranks immediately after. The distance between the Doctor and the carriage grew wider and wider, a chasm he couldn’t seem to breach.

“Please!” the Doctor shouted at the people around him. “Please, they took my friend, I’ve got to—”

“You’ve got to let her go,” a leathery old voice whispered at him from somewhere near his shoulder. He looked down to see an old horse-woman tugging on his jacket, her mouth pinched in worry. “It’ll be all right,” she said, “but you should let her go, for now.”

“What do you mean?” the Doctor demanded.

“You’re an offworlder, en’t you? This your first time on Hohm?”

Surely he didn’t have time for this. The Doctor stood on tiptoe to peer over the bustling throng, straining to see the carriage. It had stalled a few blocks ahead, at a great impenetrable gate. It looked like the drivers were conversing—no, arguing—with the gate’s operator.

“Yes,” he shot back. “What does it matter?”

“That means you don’t know how things are run round here,” the old woman told him, drawing her hood close around her face. She glanced up and down the street, at the people clustering near them, as if any one of them might be listening. “That means you’ll lose your head if you en’t careful.”

“What are they going to do to Rose?” demanded the Doctor.

“Don’t you worry, love. She’s safe for now. You can find her later. Find her at the Tournament. Everyone’s free to compete.”

The Doctor glanced back at the carriage. The gate up ahead was finally opening, slowly, and a low groan filled the air, the foreboding sound of metal scraping over metal.

“If you take her now, the Guard’ll kill you,” the old woman told him.

He ignored her.

Pushing through the throng, the Doctor slipped between booths and walls, leaping over an upturned cart and ducking beneath two workers’ heavy workload. The gate was closing again, sealing itself shut as the carriage passed through it, but that hardly mattered. The Doctor lunged at the gate and latched to the top, pulling himself up and over.

“Oi!” the gate guard shouted in alarm, but the Doctor was already on the other side, sprinting after the carriage as it disappeared around the edge of the building.

Yet once the Doctor skidded to a stop around the corner, the carriage was nowhere to be seen.

Burying his hands in his hair, the Doctor frantically looked about, glancing up and down the empty streets, but not a single person or thing greeted him, just the smooth glass road and stark white walls. The Doctor barely noticed when the gate opened up again behind him, didn’t so much as blink when several pairs of iron-grip hands clamped down on his arms.

Rose was gone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is bollocks,” Rose announced to the room, staring at each and every one of the captives in turn. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Isn’t anyone going to stand up to them? Won't any of you fight back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a brief allusion to a past experience with a spiked drink; see notes at the end for more information.

“Some of us get to go offworld, at least,” was the first thing Rose heard as consciousness slowly flooded back in.

Her eyelids fluttered, but did not open; they kept her eyeballs trapped beneath, moving without seeing. Rose was not certain exactly what had happened to her, or where she was, but she _was_ certain that she didn’t want her captors to know she was awake yet—maybe they would talk more if they thought she was still asleep.

“Anyone can go offplanet,” another voice responded; it sounded like two young women talking, Rose thought. “It’s all about whether or not you’ve got the money,” the second voice added.

“D’you happen to know the state of his finances?” a third voice asked—male, this time.

The first woman sighed. “Well, it’s not like I could ask, is it? Didn’t exactly have the time!”

Her companions hummed morosely.

“What about her, though?” the second woman asked, her voice so hushed and low that Rose almost couldn’t hear it—but if the burning in her ears was anything to go by, it felt an awful lot like the woman was talking about her. “An offworlder, by the looks of her.”

“That’s what I thought,” the man agreed. “Wonder who’s her Champion?”

“Saw her flirting with that Geoffrynn bloke from the third quarter,” was the reply, and a sudden flash of memory lanced through Rose’s vision, filling her mind’s eye with Geoffrynn’s handsome face, his charming smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he handed over her last drink—

Her _drugged_ drink, Rose realized. That poncy horse-git had bloody _drugged_ her!

Fists clenching by her side, Rose swore that when she got out of this mess, she was going to hunt that pretty bastard down and throttle the living daylights out of him.

“It’s all right,” a new voice spoke up, low and velvety-sweet and only for Rose to hear. The surface beneath Rose rippled—a cushion? That’s what it felt like—and Rose could only guess the newcomer was sitting next to her, the better to whisper in her ear. “You don’t have to pretend to be asleep,” the new voice said.

Rose bit her lip. “How could you tell?”

She imagined she could hear the other young woman smile. “You stopped snoring.”

Rose’s eyes snapped open, her mouth fully poised and ready to let this person know that _oi, she most certainly does_ not _snore, thanks_ , but upon seeing the speaker, her words escaped her.

She was one of the loveliest women Rose had ever laid eyes on.

Of course, Rose had noticed quite a few pretty faces on the planet—it was hard not to, what with the bodies attached to them launching themselves at Mickey at every available opportunity—but this young woman was simply _breathtaking_. Delicate smatterings of ivory-white freckles shone out against her brown skin, dotting the landscape of her nose and shoulders. The freckles were even further drawn out by the brightness of her short, densely-curled platinum hair. Many a woman from Earth would have envied her arched brow and high cheekbones, and her eyes were so green, Rose couldn’t help but recall the polished jade treasures she’d seen in fourteenth-century Kyoto.

“Oh my god,” Rose blurted out. “You’re gorgeous!”

The young woman laughed, ducking her head. “Well, at least you’re honest,” she chuckled. “You’re not so bad yourself, but I guess that doesn’t make us any different from anyone else here.”

“Really?” Rose asked, pushing herself up on her elbows to see what she could discern about the mysterious _here_.

The first thing she took note of was, strangely, the floor. While the Temple of Dance (that she’d been so rudely abducted from, she remembered with a grimace) had an earthen floor, much like every other establishment she, Mickey, and the Doctor had visited, the floor beneath her cushion was smooth and white, almost like marble. It met four stark-white walls, which trapped perhaps two dozen other people inside, most of them women, all of them lounging about or awakening on cushions like Rose had, or isolated into groups chattering nervously, or eating from a long table absolutely covered in fruits and breads and sweets. Rose had clearly been brought to some kind of upscale place, she thought, because while everything else she had seen on Hohm was all wood and straw and white stone and hand-woven cloth, here she saw silken tapestries on the walls, fine rich rugs on the floor, golden goblets and glass sculptures adorning the table between tureensful of food. Even the heavy wooden doors were gilded with gold.

Everything in the room was quite lovely—and that went for the people, too, Rose noticed. Tall, short, middling; slender, curvaceous, athletic; fair, dark, freckled, tattooed; short hair, long hair, curly hair, no hair; horse-person, humanoid; each person in the chamber was quite different, and quite visually striking, for that matter, showcasing an impressively large spectrum of beauty.

It sort of made Rose wonder where she fit in.

Silently, she chided herself. That line of thought was unhelpful, not to mention ridiculous. Her looks had given her a decided advantage many times in the past, she knew, and besides—she had bigger things to worry about than insecurities involving certain flighty Time Lords.

“Right,” Rose said, scanning the room for any additional clues about where she might be, and why. “So…where exactly are we?”

The woman frowned. “You don’t know?”

“Nope,” Rose replied with a grin. “Sort of why I asked.”

The young woman rolled her eyes, and Rose realized that she was probably going to like her.

“Guess I shouldn’t be so surprised, in a way,” the woman said. “You’ve practically got _offworlder_ written all over you. Still, sort of shocking you’d come here right now, if you didn’t come for this—seems like someone should have warned you.”

Sitting up straight, the woman held out her hand for Rose to shake, and she gratefully accepted. At least this was something she recognized. “I’m Dyana, by the way,” the woman—Dyana—said, with a strong and firm handshake in accompaniment.

“Nice to meet you, Dyana,” replied Rose. “I’m Rose. Now, can you tell me where I am? Not to be rude or anything, only I haven’t got the faintest clue what’s going on.”

“You know about the Championship Tour, don’t you?”

Rose thought back and recalled the posters strung up about town, the pictures of dragon and sportspeople and spears. She remembered Mickey’s eagerness to watch the event, and the Doctor’s dismissal. “Yeah?” she said uneasily.

“Well,” Dyana said, unable to quite meet Rose’s eyes as she scratched the back of her neck, “…we’re sort of the prizes.”

Rose blinked a few times. Her mouth fell open.

“We’re _what_?” she demanded.

 

***

 

“So what, the blokes on this planet just find girls they like, drug ‘em, and then compete for ‘em in some bizarro alien Olympics?” Mickey asked in bewilderment, struggling to keep up with the Doctor as he darted about the console, flipping switches and pulling levers and jamming his fingers into various buttons as if they had offended him personally. Ever since the Doctor had returned from his search—and by _returned_ , what Mickey really meant was _tossed into the TARDIS on his arse_ —his mood had taken a sharp turn for the manic.

“I don’t get it,” Mickey continued, speaking mostly to himself. “This planet can’t possibly be that backward!”

“Not just the blokes, and not the whole planet,” the Doctor shot back as he surveyed the figures zipping by on a viewscreen. “It’s a local custom, albeit an archaic one. Why would you have arranged marriages, uncertain alliances, or shaky betrothals when you can compete for your mate in the ultimate gladiatorial-style spectacle? It’s fun for the whole family!

“Only,” the Doctor went on, slapping the side of the viewscreen when its readout displeased him, “A lot of people didn’t like it. Turns out many would-be spouses or breeders didn’t enjoy being fought-over like so much farmland—go figure. Citizens would try to conscript unknowing or unwilling targets into the competition only to be met with some rather violent resistance—plenty of Hohmish are well-known for their fighting skills, did I mention that?—ergo, the city council eventually introduced the allowance of…”

The Doctor paused for a moment, thinking, one hand pinwheeling as he searched for the right words. When he found them, he spoke them with great distaste. “…pharmaceutical persuasion,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “The whole rotten business died out a few centuries ago for obvious reasons, but it looks like someone must’ve decided to revive the tradition.”

“So they drugged her,” Mickey said, his blood starting to boil. “They were gonna drug me—and they just got to Rose first.”

“Well, that’s what you get when you accept a drink from a stranger, isn’t it?” the Doctor replied. “Rose should have known better, shouldn’t she?”

After a few moments of silence, the Doctor glanced Mickey’s way, and Mickey realized that the Doctor expected him to agree. But Mickey was too preoccupied with the searing-hot anger seeping into his face, his hands clenching so tightly they shook with the force of it. He was sure to find little half-moon marks dug in his palms later.

“No,” he said, his voice quiet.

The Doctor arched an eyebrow at him. “Come on now, Mickey. You’ve got to admit—”

“No,” said Mickey again, louder this time.

“—sort of seems like she’s traveled enough by now, got to be smarter about that sort of thing—”

“How’s she supposed to be smart about something she had no way of knowing?” Mickey half-snapped, half-shouted. “ _You’re_ the one who knows everything, and _you’re_ the one who brought us here—why the hell didn’t you tell us anything about this place, why the hell didn’t you warn us?”

“Honestly, have I got to do all of your thinking for you?” the Doctor asked, unimpressed. “It’s basic common sense: don’t accept drinks from a stranger.”

Mickey’s cheeks burned hotter and hotter. “And you’ve never done that, have you? Never accepted a gift from someone you didn’t know?”

The Doctor hesitated, rolling his eyes. “Of course I’ve—”

“It’s not something you’d ever have to worry about, is it? Someone doing something like that to you, trying to take advantage of you.”

“That’s not—”

“I mean, are you genuinely this thick, or is it just because you’re being jealous and petty? It had better be the second one, cos I don’t think Rose would want to stay with you if you’re the kind of person who really thinks like that,” Mickey spat.

The Doctor fell quiet, then, dangerously silent, his jaw tense and rigid, his eyes boring into Mickey. But Mickey gathered up his courage and continued.

“Was it her fault the first time it happened, too?” Mickey asked. “When she was sixteen, and some bloke down the pub slipped something into her drink? Someone she thought she could _trust_?”

Something in the Doctor’s face shifted, then, his anger growing darker—deadlier. “Who?” he asked, in a voice that made Mickey shudder.

Mickey crossed his arms stubbornly. “Does it really matter, if it was all Rose’s fault?”

The Doctor’s eyes flashed, and for a brief moment, the air between them was charged, thick and heavy like the atmosphere before a storm; the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stood up on end, the way it does before lightning strikes.

He wondered if he should start running while he had the chance.

Swallowing, the Doctor looked away, letting his gaze drill into something else for a little while. The tension dissipated, and Mickey could breathe again.

“What happened?” the Doctor asked quietly.

“Rose should really be the one telling you all this,” Mickey said, to himself just as much as the Doctor. “If she wants you to know at all.”

He drew in a deep breath. “All I really know for sure is that her drink got spiked, and I only even know that cos Shireen told me. She’s the one who called me from the pub. Asked me to pick her and Rose up. Gave me the details of the story later, all the bits she knew. But Rose has never mentioned it since, and I’ve never asked.”

The Doctor’s gaze hardened, and unbelievably, Mickey _almost_ felt sorry for the bloke, for whatever the Doctor might do to him, if he found him. (And Mickey was absolutely certain the Doctor could find him, if he wanted.) But then the Doctor just scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping it like he was wiping the anger away.

“You’re right,” the Doctor said, and at least he had the decency to look suitably ashamed. “My anger was…misplaced. Rose had no control over whether or not someone else tried to hurt her. It wasn’t her fault at all.” Then, quieter, “Of course it wasn’t.”

Slapping on a cheerful smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the Doctor began his journey around the console again, entering coordinates onto a number pad on the far side. “You’re a decent human being, Mickey Smith,” he said, flashing his grin Mickey’s way.

Surprised at the words even more than the emotional whiplash carrying them, Mickey laughed uncertainly. “Er…thanks, I guess?”

“And you’re a good friend.”

Mickey relaxed a little. “Thank you,” he said, in earnest.

After a few moments of awkward quiet, punctuated only by the _clackity-clack_ of keyboard keys and the TARDIS’ ever-present hum, Mickey decided it was safe to speak again.

“So what’s the plan?” he ventured.

“Wellllll,” said the Doctor, and he was doing quite a bang-up job of acting almost completely like his normal self, “The competitors fight against a number of different elements on their quest to claim a partner. They make this whole great quest out of it. Champions will fight off anything and everything from wild animals, physical obstacles, harsh terrain, even other competitors, in the effort to win someone. You make it to the end of the course with a person in hand, they’re legally yours.”

The Doctor pulled one last lever on the console and the TARDIS whirred into gear, its lights flashing and central column grinding as it prepared for takeoff. “So the plan, Mickey-my-lad,” the Doctor said with a grin, “is to go win Rose.”

He pushed the lever back down and the TARDIS shot into the Vortex.

 

***

 

This Rose girl was…interesting.

Dyana wondered how often she’d been trapped in situations like this—surely there was no other explanation for her calm but constant alertness, the very specific questions she asked ( _What are these walls made of? Are we above-ground, or below?_ ), or how she charted every detail in the room, lips moving almost imperceptibly as she cataloged what Dyana could only assume were points of interest.

Interesting, indeed…she wondered if Rose had picked up on any of the same things she had.

When one of the heavy gilded doors groaned open, the Golden Guard marching inside, Dyana noticed that Rose’s muscles tensed and her focus narrowed. Several of the captives blocked her view as they crowded about, hesitantly inspecting the Guards’ offerings; each wheeled in a cartload of silks and jewels and baubles, all of them glittering in the candlelight. But Rose didn’t move any closer. Instead she hung back on her cushion, glancing at the door, watching the Guards in front of it. Dyana, in turn, watched her.

“What’s all that, then?” Rose asked, nodding toward the carts and their treasure.

“Adult dress-up,” replied Dyana. When Rose shot her a questioning look, Dyana sighed. “Well, you want to look your best, don’t you? Make sure you look good so you get a good Champion.”

She barely resisted wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You want to look like you’re worth fighting for.”

“Gross,” said Rose, pulling a face. “No, ta.”

Standing, Rose marched right up to one of the Guards and planted herself firmly in front of him. “Right,” she said, drawing up to her full (if unimpressive) height. “I don’t want to be in your Championship-thing. I’m not from Hohm, I didn’t know about any of this, and I certainly didn’t agree to it. This has all been a big misunderstanding. So let me go.”

She paused for a moment, considering. “Please,” she added.

When the Guards did not respond, Rose frowned. “Did you hear me?” she asked. “This is all a big mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. Let me go.”

The Guards did not reply, but continued their stony-faced silence, staring at the wall opposite them as if their eyes were fixed and immobile. Dyana looked on as Rose waved a hand in front of their faces. When neither of the Guards reacted, Rose stepped back, determination wrinkling her brow. Her eyes flickered from the Guards to the open door behind them, and Dyana could practically _see_ the plan formulating in her mind.

Unable to suppress a smirk, Dyana propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hand, ready to enjoy the show.

Rose tried to slip by the Guards first, starting out with a slow and unassuming pace, then sprinting for the door. The toe of one shoe had just crossed the threshold when one of the Guards whirled around and seized her by the arm. With a shout, Rose dug her heels in and tried to break away, but the Guard simply yanked her back, handling her as easily as if she were a doll. He threw her bodily to one of the cushions on the floor.

Several of the captives tittered and gaped at the spectacle, but not Dyana. Her smirk faded away, to be replaced by something else altogether. She watched as Rose sprang up again, desperation etched in her face.

“Rose—” Dyana said in halfhearted protest, but Rose ignored her. She ran full-pelt at the Guards but this time they merely stepped back out of the room, throwing the doors shut behind them so that Rose slammed against the doors with a sickening _thump_. She staggered back, cursing under her breath.

“Let me out!” she yelled, punching and kicking at the doors. “Let us all out!”

“Sorry sweetheart, but that’s not going to happen,” said one of the other young women, a pretty blush-haired horse-girl Dyana knew from school as Vareem. She pulled a pink silk dress from one of the casks and held it up against her creamy-pale skin, admiring the play of gentle color even as she sighed in resignation. “No one gets out unless they’re claimed at the Championship, so you might as well make the best of it.”

“This is bollocks,” Rose announced to the room, staring at each and every one of the captives in turn. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Isn’t anyone going to stand up to them? Won’t any of you fight back?”

No one replied, but that didn’t surprise Dyana. She agreed with Rose, of course, but still—Rose wasn’t from Hohm. She didn’t completely understand. She couldn’t.

“You can’t honestly be okay with this!” Rose said, exasperated.

Vareem shrugged defensively. “It’s going to happen whether we want it to or not. So what does it matter if we’re okay with it?”

Glancing between Vareem and Dyana and all the other captives, Rose shook her head, her mouth hanging open in wordless disbelief. One by one, the captives turned away, returning to their task of sorting through dresses and gems, pulling pieces and examining with an efficiency like they had prepared for this day their entire lives—which, Dyana knew, many of them had.

“Doesn’t it bother you, though?” Rose pleaded with Dyana.

Dyana examined Rose closely, looking her face up and down. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to trust Rose—she did want to, very, very much. She and her allies could use every scrap, every crumb of help they could get, no matter how small.

(But probably her sister had trusted someone too—and look how that turned out.)

“Why did you come to Hohm?” Dyana asked suspiciously. “If not for the Championship, why?”

Rose’s face darkened. “I was tricked.”

“By a Champion?”

“By an idiot. An idiot who had better bail me the hell out of this if he knows what’s good for him.”

Dyana scoured Rose’s face once more, seeking out any indicators that Rose might be lying to her, but she saw none—her eyes didn’t dart away, she never played with her hair, her cheeks never flushed nor did her pupils dilate. If anything, all she saw painted across Rose’s face was fear, tempered with a healthy amount of anger.

Ah, what the hell, Dyana thought. The plan was probably doomed from the start anyway.

“Hypothetically,” Dyana said slowly, “—all theoretical, nothing practical, you understand—someone might be planning something. It might possibly be an escape. Possibly. Perhaps.”

Rose’s eyes widened, brightening with hope.

“If that were to happen,” Dyana continued, keeping her voice carefully casual, “would such a thing interest you?”

Rose nodded. “How can I help?”

Head held high, Dyana stood up from her cushion, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress.

“How do you feel about going out in style?” she asked.

 

***

 

“There!” Mickey yelled, pointing at the vidscreen. He swiveled it round so the Doctor could see. “Looks like some sort of stadium—that’s got to be what we’re looking for, right?”

The Doctor glanced up from the console. The image was too fuzzy for him to make out much—unfortunate, but only to be expected in the Vortex—but he could see a vast Colosseum-like structure, filled with what appeared to be terraformed mountainous terrain, if he were to hazard a guess. But with the TARDIS trembling and groaning all around him, his mind was admittedly a bit elsewhere.

“Let’s hope you’re right!” the Doctor shouted. He pulled a lever on the console and the entire ship pitched forward violently, throwing Mickey against the railing.

“Oi!” Mickey protested. “Watch your driving!”

“And watch your footing,” said the Doctor with a grin, “cos it’s about to get worse!”

 

***

 

“Honored Champions, treasured guests, ladies and gentlemen and variations thereupon!” the announcer’s voice boomed throughout the stadium; “Welcome to the pre-games for the fortieth anniversary of our glorious restored Championship Tour!”

The crowd erupted in a wave of noise, the massive stadium echoing endlessly with the roar of an audience ready and eager to see treasures claimed and blood spilled. Each of the thousands of people shouted and cheered, clapped hands and stomped feet. Each of the thousands, that was, but a small scattered few.

“But before the pre-games begin, we have something special to share with you,” the announcer continued, his voice as jovial and slimy as the worst sort of used-car salesperson. “In light of recent events, our Esteemed Protectorates of the City Council have decided that this year’s celebration will mark a true return to our core values—a return to our prestigious roots—”

The crowd cheered.

“—a return to our glory days—”

The crowd yelled even louder.

“—a return to _tradition_!”

The crowd shouted its assent, people leaping out of their seats and pumping their fists into the air.

“And now,” the announcer shouted gleefully, “ _Let the games begin!_ ”

The crowd screamed out a cacophony of indiscernible pandemonium, bellows and chants and cheers all competing viciously to be heard over each other in a wave of sound as heavy and dense as the planet itself.

Unnoticed amongst the chaos, several crowdgoers snuck between the stadium-bleachers, each of them drawing hoods over their heads.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone worried about Rose's earlier encounter with a spiked drink: she has always had a good friend in Shireen, who, despite having one of the best flirts of her life that night, noticed pretty quickly that something was wrong with Rose when a bloke--a friend from school--brought her over, claiming that she was pretty far-gone, so he "was going to make sure she made it home safely." But Shireen and Rose had gotten sloshed together enough for Shireen to know that Rose was at least a four-drinks gal on a bad day, so at one drink in, there was no way Rose should have been stumbling like that, no way she would have needed the support of the bloke's arm around her, no reason for her eyes to be cloudy and unfocused like they were. So Shireen struck up a fuss, the other patrons of the pub riled around her, and the nasty bloke was tossed out on his arse on the street like the nasty piece of garbage he was. And Shireen (see above, re: good friend), after calling Mickey, spent their entire time waiting making sure that Rose was all right, keeping her supplied with glasses of water, wrapping an arm around her protectively, and wiping her smudged makeup away. Fortunately Rose experienced no harm beyond imbibing a spiked drink, but she felt such an overwhelming mixture of (incredibly undeserved) stupidity and shame that she avoided talking about the whole thing in the hopes that it would all go away. And by the time the Doctor came into her life, she had all but forgotten about that night. (And a few rounds of Torchwood-mandated therapy, in another universe, just before her and the metacrisis Doctor's happy ending, will settle her mind about the whole thing once and for all. <3 <3 <3)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right, new plan,” said the Doctor. “Run!”

Alarms screeched and blared overhead, lights flashing and popping off the console like a police car as the TARDIS violently quaked all around them.

“Are you usually so bad at this?” Mickey yelled over the din, clinging to the railing for dear life.

“The TARDIS doesn’t like these landings,” the Doctor explained. “We’re getting ready to materialize in a highly public space, full to brimming with spectators. No chance we’ll go overlooked—we’re establishing ourselves as part of the timeline, permanently. Creating a fixed event!”

“And that’s bad?” asked Mickey, struggling to remain upright as the ship jostled and shook around him.

“It’s a tricky business. Anytime we land, it’s really best to disturb things as little as possible—little tweak here, little tweak there, try to blend in then disappear. You know, help where we can without making too much of a splash!”

“Yeah, right!” Mickey snorted in disbelief.

The Doctor scoffed amidst a new set of sirens wailing around them. “Excuse me, I happen to be very good at what I do! So unless you want to fight your way through the pre-games and gallivant about the tournament with loincloths and spears, we’re going to have to bend the rules a bit!”

“Why?” asked Mickey. “Not that I want to wear a loincloth,” he added hurriedly.

The TARDIS gave one last great shudder as it began to materialize. After the Doctor input a series of commands, anchoring the TARDIS to this time, this place, the chaos around them slowly began to calm, lights fading and noise ebbing.

The Doctor grabbed his coat. “Because,” he said, averting his gaze from Mickey’s as he pulled his coat on. “It’s Rose.”

He looked up to see Mickey watching him with a shrewd expression. He didn’t like it. Something about Mickey the Idiot being shrewd—or even worse, _astute_ —just made him grumpy.

“Well?” he snapped. “Are you going to be useless in here or are you going to be useless out there?”

Mickey scoffed. “Like I’d let you take all the credit for the rescue!”

“That’s the spirit!”

Trainers squeaking against the ramp, the Doctor sprinted toward the TARDIS doors. “Well, this is it, Mr. Smith,” he said, placing his hands on the door handles. “Out into the unknown!”

He drank in a deep breath and flung the doors open.

The Doctor and Mickey stepped out into the stadium, Mickey throwing up an arm to shield his eyes from the bright lights shining overhead. In-person, the Doctor could indeed confirm that the arena had been terraformed into a mountainous landscape, but it was more than that—aside from the sloping hills and jutting rocks, it had an almost theme-park feel to it, complete with tinny music, plaster trees, cheesy fake castle-ruins, and at the far end, a giant, towering mountain crowned with a white citadel that could have been airlifted right off the top of Cinderella’s castle in Disneyworld. The arena looked, for all the world, like a glorified sword-and-sorcery film set. To top it all off, the entire stadium was surrounded by five-meter-high slick white walls, upon which were mounted giant speakers, huge floodlights, and dozens of cameras. And just back from those walls, a massive audience—thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands, if the Doctor were to venture a guess—sat protected behind black one-way screens.

The Doctor wondered at that. The population of Hohm was quite small by most planets’ standards—it would be a stretch to say that it had five thousand people between all its habitable continents. So who were all of these audience members? And what was the story behind this entertainment technology? He hadn’t seen so much as a simple electric light back in town—where did all of this technology come from, and why didn’t more Hohmish people have it?

“Well, at least no one’s seen us yet, right?” Mickey piped up behind him.

As if on cue, a horn boomed out through the speakers and Mickey and the Doctor found themselves smack in the center of a pair of spotlights. The audience surrounding them began to _boo_ and _hiss_ , their shouts filling the stadium and bouncing off the walls.

“Just had to say it, didn’t you?” the Doctor muttered before grabbing Mickey by the wrist. “Come on!”

“It looks like we’ve got us some stowaways, ladies and gentlefolk and sundry!” an announcer boomed overhead as the Doctor and Mickey darted over the uneven earth. “Security experts are telling me we have no idea how they smuggled their aircraft inside—stay tuned for updates on whether they keep their jobs after this! In the meantime, we’re waiting on the final word from City Council on whether or not their entries will be disqualified…”

“What happens if we’re disqualified?” Mickey asked.

“Wellll, they’ll probably kill us on the spot.”

“ _What_?”

“Oh, come on, Mickey!” the Doctor shouted back gleefully. “This is the stuff adventures are made of!”

Leaping over a grassy knoll, the Doctor was pleasantly surprised at how well Mickey was keeping up with him as they both ran nearly side-by-side, legs and arms pumping in mad unison. Had Mr. Smith been _practicing_?

The two of them scrambled up a set of steps carved into a hill, at the summit of which stood a flag flapping lazily in the breeze. It looked like a marker of some sort—the Doctor was willing to bet they would find the captives waiting for them on the other side.

“All right,” the Doctor yelled, “We should find Rose at the bottom of the hill. All we have to do is nab her, then we can split back to the TARDIS and soar on out of here. Easy-peasy!”

But when they reached the hill’s crest, and gazed down at the stone plinth and pillars below, the Doctor just stopped. And stared.

It was empty.

The captives’ area—which it most definitely was, there was nothing else it could be, not unless the city council had set up a stone platform and two dozen chain-covered stone pillars for kicks—was completely deserted, its former inhabitants gone without a trace. The pillars’ chains dangled limply where people should be.

“What?” Mickey gasped out, eyes wide in disbelief. “Where the hell’s Rose?”

The Doctor scoured the surrounding area for any clue, any hint, even a shred of a splinter of a shadow of an idea, but he came up empty.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, panic thudding dully in his throat.

 

***

 

 _A few moments earlier_ …

 

“—a return to _tradition_!”

The crowd erupted in a frenzy of noise once again, stomping and cheering and clapping and shouting, and if nothing else, Rose wished her hands were free so that she could cover her ears. The din was so loud, it reverberated in her chest, pressing against her eardrums and ringing in her teeth. It even rattled the chains holding her captive.

She screwed her eyes shut against the overwhelming sound. _It will be all right_ , she reminded herself, straining to hear her own thoughts over the relentless screaming. This was an adventure just like any other. The Doctor had saved her from much worse scrapes than this—hell, she’d managed to save herself a time or two. She was going to be fine.

Rose chanced a look over at Dyana, chained to the pillar next to her. Dyana flashed her an encouraging smile. “It’ll be all right!” she shouted, or possibly mouthed—it was impossible to tell with all the noise, but Rose appreciated the sentiment all the same. Dyana was right, more right than she knew. If her plan didn’t work, then the Doctor would save them; it was only a question of whether he would save them now, in the stadium, or later after everything had settled down. It would hardly be the first forced marriage he’d saved Rose from, after all. Rose just needed to be patient.

She believed that wholeheartedly until the dragon soared overhead.

Mouth falling open, Rose shook her head, growing dizzy with disbelief. But surely it couldn’t be _real_ …?

A hush fell over the crowd, blanketing the stadium with terrified silence. Rose could only think everyone else was just as shocked as she was—everything she’d seen and she still couldn’t trust her eyes. Huge and scaled and powerfully muscled, with great bat’s-wings casting massive tremors through the air after every stroke, the dragon bore a massive pair of horns atop its head, setting off lines of dinosaur-ridges down its back. Its great scaly flanks glistened scarlet, its eyes flashed golden, and its wicked claws glittered black. The creature looked like something straight out of a movie or a storybook, except none of those beasts ever looked so huge or so capable of tearing a human apart as if they were made of tissue paper.

The dragon passed overhead and out of sight, toward the far end of the stadium, where Rose knew the Champions awaited the start of the pre-games. Seconds later, the arena shook with the force of an earth-shattering roar.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” said Rose, her voice trembling only a little bit. “Maybe its bark is worse than its—”

Dozens of screams drifted their way, ear-splitting shrieks cut-off mid-sound.

Then, silence again.

“—bite,” Rose finished in a whisper, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“Well, would you look at that,” the announcer’s voice boomed overhead, and even he sounded shaken. “The pre-games have barely begun, and we’re already down four Champions. Nothing but ashes, ladies and gentlefolk and others. Now that’s what I call _efficient_!”

“But it won’t hurt _us_ , right?” Vareem shouted over the swelling sound of the audience around them. “Not like the city would let anything happen to the prizes— _right_?”

Dyana did not answer, her eyes fixed toward the far end of the stadium. She was waiting, Rose knew, and probably had little attention to spare for anything or anyone else.

“They did say this year was a return to tradition,” Rose realized aloud. “What were these things like in the past?”

Now it was Vareem’s turn to go pale.

Amidst more screams from the Champions and more cheers from the audience, Rose frantically scanned the stadium for any sign of the Doctor, but there was no flash of blue, no hint of engines _vworp-vworping_ into existence. But surely he was looking for her. He had to be. He wouldn’t have just stranded her on a strange planet after their fight, right? Certainly he wouldn’t have abandoned her?

(Right, and he wouldn’t abandon her on a spaceship in the 51st-century, either.)

“Forget this,” Rose muttered as the voice overhead announced two more deaths-by-dragon. Wrists struggling against her chains, pulling so hard that she was sure to find bruises there later, she reached into her hair and pulled out two hairpins. Twisting her arms, she just managed to insert a hairpin into one of her manacles.

“What are you doing?” Dyana hissed. “That’s not part of the plan!”

“Yeah, well, last I checked, dragons weren’t a part of the plan either,” Rose shot back. She jiggled the hairpins about, straining to hear the tumblers inside while remembering Keisha’s instructions on one of several youthful-indiscretion-filled evenings back at the Estate.

Rose grinned like a madwoman when she felt one of the tumblers click into place. “Besides,” she said, panting with exertion, “what good is a plan if you can’t improvise a little?”

The dragon screeched out another deafening roar, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

“Sod the plan,” said Vareem. “Do me next!”

 

***

 

_A few moments later…_

 

“Did someone already take her?” Mickey asked.

Scrutinizing the land around them, the Doctor shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “None of the so-called Champions have made it this far yet.”

“How do you know?”

The Doctor pointed to the mountain towering at the end of stadium. “That’s where everyone is headed—the citadel up top is where competitors have to take their prize and claim it. So it’s a fair bet the pre-games took place at the opposite end—” the Doctor pointed back the way they came, “—that way.”

“And ours are the only footprints coming from that direction,” Mickey realized aloud, glancing at the ground beneath their feet.

“Exactly. Good eye.”

“So what happened to all the captives?”

“I’m guessing that one way or the other, the captives are all headed straight for the citadel right now,” the Doctor said, speaking to himself just as much as Mickey as he retraced their steps back up the hill. “Our best bet would be to get back to the TARDIS and try to pick them up before—”

He froze. Several dozen hooded Champions dotted the landscape between them and the TARDIS. Several dozen hooded Champions with bows and arrows, boomerangs and spears and swords. Several dozen hooded Champions with an assortment of deadly weapons and a bone to pick with the two sneak-in contestants.

One of them let out a shout, brandishing his weapon high in the air, and charged for Mickey and the Doctor. The rest followed.

“Right, new plan,” said the Doctor. “Run!”

 

***

 

The freed captives sprinted toward the mountain, dozens of pairs of slippered feet slapping frantically against the rocky earth.

“So your people won’t panic if they don’t find us back there, right?” Rose asked.

“They’ll figure it out,” Dyana gasped as she ran, her skirts hiked up and flapping about her knees. “We just need to make it as close to the top of the mountain as we can. My people will find us and claim everyone who doesn’t want to be a bride-prize!”

“And if the Doctor gets there first, he can just claim all of us.”

“Right. But he’ll set us free afterward, won’t he?”

“Absolutely,” Rose shot back. She thought of the look on the Doctor’s face when he found out he’d just been saddled with twenty-something wives, and she laughed. “You’ve got nothing to worry about!”

“Except for the other Champions,” Vareem pointed out, casting a worried look over her shoulder.

Just at that moment, almost as if they’d only been waiting for someone to say it, several hooded Champions came hurtling out from behind the trees. One of them pounced on Vareem, slapping a golden chain on her wrist before she had a chance to react.

A horn sounded overhead. “Our first prize has been claimed, honored guests!” the announcer’s voice boomed over the arena. “Let’s see if he can keep her!”

Another Champion seized a captive and the horn sounded once again.

“Shona!” Dyana called out in dismay, only to see Shona squeal with delight when her captor tore off her hood. The horse-woman pulled Shona in for a quick kiss and she happily responded in kind.

“True love, gentle viewers!” the announcer shouted. “Always warms the soul to see two sweethearts reunited in the arena!”

“It’s all right!” Shona told Dyana and Rose as she ran past them, hand-in-hand with her captor—or her girlfriend, rather, Rose told herself. “Keep going!”

“Well, that’s actually sort of sweet, isn’t it?” Rose laughed, and Dyana nodded in agreement.

They reached the base of the mountain, and both of them darted up after Vareem and her would-be Champion. Vareem struggled against the chain that bound her to him, kicking and pulling back with all her strength. The Champion struggled to hold onto her, but his feet were steady and his grip true.

“Hang on, Vareem!” Dyana called out. “We’re coming for—”

Her shout was sliced in half by something hurtling straight into her, knocking her into the ground. Rose whipped round just in time to see a giant boomerang bouncing off Dyana and zipping back to its Champion, who ran forward and slapped a chain on Dyana’s wrist.

“Dyana!” Rose cried, halting in her tracks.

“Behind you!” Dyana shouted, and Rose turned just in time to see a Champion sneak up behind her, his face hidden by one of the Champions’ hoods. He twirled a golden chain in one hand and cast it at Rose—it clamped onto her wrist and tightened, winding around her wrist like a snake. With a shout, Rose pushed and pulled, fingernails scrabbling uselessly against the links, but the chain remained stubbornly tight. The Champion yanked on it, pulling Rose toward him.

Rose swore under her breath. It was that traitorous cad Geoffrynn under the hood. It had to be.

Pitching forward, Rose balled her hands into fists. “Oh, I am _so_ gonna murder you!” she yelled, and instead of waiting for him to reel her in, she ran full-pelt at him. Surprised, he stumbled back, fumbling for a weapon at his side, but Rose was too fast—she’d closed the gap between them within seconds.

With all the force of her momentum behind her, Rose punched him in the face.

“ _That’s_ for drugging me!” Rose shouted as he stumbled back again, reeling in surprise. Before he had a chance to recover, Rose sprang forward.

Drawing her hand back, she slapped him in the jaw with a satisfying _thwack_. “And _that’s_ for being a lying, two-faced git!” she shouted as he tripped over his own two feet, falling to the—

Wait. His own _two_ feet?

Standing over the fellow, Rose bent down and ripped the hood off his face only to find it wasn’t Geoffrynn at all—it was his smarmy human friend.

“The _hell_?” Rose demanded.

But she didn’t have time to mull things over in her head any further than that—all around her, she could see other Champions tackling and capturing prisoners, binding their wrists with prehensile golden chains before they dragged them away, hauling them up the mountain like so much pirate’s treasure. The announcer’s voice boomed all round the stadium with each capture and the audience shrieked and cheered in reply.

Well. That just made Rose even more bloody stubborn.

Upon feeling another strong yank on the chain, Rose slipped out of her delicate golden slippers and planted her feet firmly in the dirt, using her toes as ten little anchors. Geoffrynn’s friend (who didn’t _deserve_ the dignity of a real name, Rose thought angrily) tugged until Rose’s feet skidded through the grass and tripped over the hem of her dress, tearing a hole in the flimsy fabric.

“Stop!” Rose shouted, pulling back on the chain in a tenacious tug-of-war. But her arms shook with the strain—that blasted idiot was stronger than he looked—and soon she found herself dragged toward him. “Stop it!” she shouted again. “I don’t want this! I don’t want to be your bride-prize!”

Her captor stopped pulling for a second as he pushed up from the ground, a smirk flitting across his face. “Really?” he asked, his grip tightening as Rose tugged on the chain again. “Why not?”

Rose struggled to find the words—surely he wasn’t that thick, surely it was so obvious she didn’t actually need to _tell_ him…?

“I don’t know you?” she said, mouth gaping in disbelief. “And I don’t want to be your property? It’s pretty basic stuff!”

The Champion threw his head back and laughed. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “A girl in town during festival-time, who flirts with you, accepts your tokens, and then says she doesn’t want you? Sure thing, sweetheart. That’s hilarious. You’re funny.”

Laughter subsiding, his smile grew wicked and predatory, as if he suddenly had more teeth than he did before, and sharper ones, too.

“I like funny in a girl,” he said, his voice darkening.

The words summoned up nausea in Rose’s gut but she tamped it down, pushed it away. As the Champion gave her chain one last mighty pull, Rose threw herself to the ground. If he wanted to take her up the mountain, he would have to drag her dead weight there.

“Oh, come on,” the captor sighed in frustration, pulling at the chain and swearing under his breath when Rose’s body budged only an inch. “You’re gonna have it so easy! I’ve got money—you’ll never have to lift a finger again in your life. I’m not gonna shout at you like those other jerks, I’d never smack you around or anything. Hell, I’ll even let you out of the house sometimes, if you ask nice!”

“Well now, if that isn’t an enticing offer,” a familiar voice chimed up behind Rose, “then I don’t know what is.”

Rose sat up and whirled around to see the Doctor standing just a few meters off, a cheeky grin slapped on his face. Relief and happiness surged through her, inflating her chest til it felt like her ribs might burst.

“Did you hear that, Rose?” the Doctor continued. “He’s promised not to hit you and everything! What a shining example of humanoid decency!”

The captor leapt to Rose’s side and yanked her up from the ground by the wrist, whipping a knife from his hip faster than Rose could blink. One arm pinning her to his side, his other hand held the knife up against Rose’s throat, pressing just hard enough that Rose could feel the bite of the blade.

“Rose!” shouted Mickey, springing from behind the Doctor, but the Doctor grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back, his eyes trained on Rose. All signs of mirth had completely evaporated from his face; his mouth had gone thin and his eyes blown wide.

“Let her go,” he said calmly.

“Back off!” the Champion demanded, tightening his grip on Rose. “By all rights, she’s mine!”

“She isn’t anyone’s!” Mickey shot back, struggling against the Doctor’s grip.

Lurching away from Mickey, the Champion dragged Rose with him, his knife slipping with the movement. Rose gasped at the razor-sharpness of its sting, watched the Doctor’s gaze grow sharp and deadly.

She shuddered despite the evening heat. She wasn’t sure what she was more afraid of—the Champion’s knife at her throat, or that look on the Doctor’s face.

“If you don’t let her go, someone’s going to get hurt,” the Doctor said, his voice deceptively even, “and that someone’s going to be you.”

“No! I claimed her!” the Champion shouted, his grasp clenching around Rose until she grit her teeth in discomfort. “By the rites of tradition, I—”

His words were cut off by a boomerang to the back of the skull.

He twisted round to see what the hell had just happened, but no sooner had he turned than the boomerang came sailing right back, smacking him square in the face and throwing his head back with the force of the blow. Stumbling, he swayed on his feet for a moment, as if his brain couldn’t decide whether to lose consciousness or not.

Then he fell like a sack of bricks.

Two pairs of hands hauled Rose away, and she glanced up to see Dyana and Vareem. “How—?” Rose asked, astonished.

“Had some help,” Dyana grunted, pulling Rose to her feet. She held up the boomerang, a huge grin lighting up her face. “And this didn’t hurt, either.”

Rose found herself wrapped up a great bear hug before she had a chance to reply, Mickey slamming into her with a joyous shout. Grinning, she returned the embrace—how had she _ever_ been irritated with him for coming onboard the TARDIS?—and stood back, his hands clasped in hers. “So you got to see the Tournament after all, huh?” she said, laughing. “Is it everything you dreamed?”

“More like a nightmare,” replied Mickey with a grimace.

“Yeah, and you haven’t even seen the dragon yet, have you?”

Mickey’s eyes widened. “So there really is a dragon? A real-life, full-size, honest-to-goodness—”

“Monster,” Dyana finished for him. Spotting a group of hooded Champions, she visibly tensed ( _Ready for battle_ , thought Rose), but relaxed when the leader of the group saluted her. She repeated the gesture and pointed toward the Citadel, and the group took off; Rose could only guess they weren’t Champions after all, but some of her people in disguise. “And it’s only a matter of time before it comes round this way again, so we’d better hurry,” Dyana added, warily scanning the space above the arena.

“Real quick, though—don’t suppose your hairpins will work on the chains, do you?” asked Vareem. She gestured at the chain coiled round her arm; its tail trailed out for quite a distance behind her, shining bright in the dirt. “Only they’re a bit inconvenient.”

“Not so great for running away,” Dyana agreed, still watching the skies.

Mickey pulled Rose’s hand closer for inspection, flinching at the bruises already forming beneath the chain on her wrist. “Yikes,” he said, fingering the chain, giving it a tug. “Think the sonic would do the trick?”

Rose shrugged. “Only one way to find out, I guess. Doctor—?”

But when she turned to address him, the Doctor wasn’t there.

Frowning, Rose glanced over the surrounding area, silently reminding herself to chide him later ( _Looks like I’m not the only one with a bad habit of wandering off, hm?_ ). She found him quickly enough, just a ways off from where she saw him last, crouching down next to something low on the ground as his lips moved in a murmur. He was talking to her captor, Rose realized. His hand landed on the man’s bare shoulder, ostensibly so he could push himself up, except that the man convulsed afterward, his body jerking in a single great tremor Rose could see even from this distance.

She wondered what just happened, what the Doctor just did.

“Gonna tell me what was that all about?” she asked as the Doctor approached.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Do you really want to know?”

(Upon seeing the sheer terror flashing in her captor’s face, the way he couldn’t tear his fear-stricken eyes away from the Doctor’s retreating form, Rose wondered if this was a stone best left unturned. Still, discomfort churned in her gut, an uneasy feeling that whatever just transpired was worse even than the threat of the dragon hanging overhead.)

“Right, I heard Mr. Mickety-Mick here say something about the sonic,” said the Doctor, snapping instantly back into a cheerful mood as he whipped the screwdriver out of a coat-pocket. “Let’s see what we can do about those cumbersome chains, shall we?”

He offered a hand to Vareem, who took it without question (but with a healthy looking-up-and-down, Rose couldn’t help but notice with a little jealous twinge). Scanning the chain clamped onto Vareem’s wrist, the Doctor’s eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Triple-deadlocked,” he announced. “And with a magnetic crypto-seal, to boot.”

“Blimey, that’s a bit over-the-top, isn’t it?” asked Mickey.

“It doesn’t quite make sense,” the Doctor agreed, thoughtful as he gestured for Dyana to show him her hand so he could study her chain as well. “This is just another example of technology that far outstrips anything we saw in the city. Think about it—it’s all the Dark Ages out there. Why keep with the sticks and stones if you’ve got stuff like this available to you?”

“Maybe it’s a cultural choice?” Rose suggested, looking to Dyana and Vareem for insight as the Doctor grabbed her hand, as if her chain would tell him something different than the other two had. “Or religious?”

“Definitely not,” replied Dyana. “We don’t have that stuff cos we’re not allowed to.”

Mickey scoffed. “What d’you mean, _not allowed to_? Why not?”

“It’s all about control,” the Doctor muttered under his breath, but he hardly seemed to be paying attention to the conversation. His gaze wandered from the chain sealed round Rose’s wrist to the bruises forming a pink-blue halo behind them, further up to Rose’s bicep, where a darker, bigger bruise blossomed barely hidden beneath a golden armlet. The Doctor unhinged the armlet and cast it to the ground, grasping Rose’s bicep gently, his thumb brushing the edge of the bruise. Rose could tell he was mentally tracing the wound’s outline—cuts and scrapes were fairly typical in their lifestyle, just another danger of the job, and therefore generally went unacknowledged except for having some plasters and antiseptic tossed her way, but this bruise had a definite palm-and-fingers shape to it. There was no mistaking, or downplaying, how someone had hurt Rose.

“Did your Champion do this?” the Doctor asked, and although his voice sounded casual enough, Rose knew better.

“No,” she said, slowly extracting her arm from his grasp. She tried not to wince; she didn’t want him to know that actually, the bruise was quite tender, and throbbed where he’d touched it. Gathering her skirts, she set off toward the Citadel, throwing over her shoulder as casually as she could, “Just your average line-of-duty stuff.”

“If he hurt you—”

“It wasn’t him,” Rose interrupted, jaw jutting out in defiance, “and you don’t get to do that.”

“Do what? Be concerned?”

“You don’t get to make this about you.”

Catching up to her, the Doctor spluttered indignantly. “What? I never—!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rose, rolling her eyes. “I know the _Oncoming Storm_ look when I see it, right? Cos no one’s allowed to hurt your friends except you.”

He stopped in his tracks, oblivious to Mickey and Dyana and Vareem as they passed him by, and Rose grudgingly hesitated too. The Doctor just stared at her, mouth open, one eyebrow piqued in confusion.

“I hurt you?” he asked.

The question seemed so genuine, so sincere, that Rose actually took a step back. Flabbergasted, she searched his face to see if she could detect any hint of him being an arse, but his expression betrayed no clues beyond surprise, nothing that would let her know whether she should be furious or take pity on him.

But how could he _not know_?

Unless…

Rose swallowed and tried to ignore the feeling of something sinking, deep and heavy and solid and immoveable, into the pit of her stomach, just like it did when he jumped through that mirror.

“Doctor,” she asked, willing her voice not to shake, and failing miserably. “How do you define ‘betrayal’?”

His eyebrow arched even higher. “We’re on the run from a traditionalist maniac mob bearing literal torches and pitchforks, and you want to stop for an etymology lesson?”

“Just answer the question, please?”

Glancing all around them, at the rocks and the grass and the plaster trees and the other three people stopped up ahead who were pretending, very badly, not to listen to this conversation, the Doctor grew visibly uncomfortable, shifting weight from one foot to the other. “I would say…it’s sort of a violation of a contract,” he said, slowly. “A mutually-agreed-upon contract, whether spoken or unspoken, professional or patriotic or personal, but always with an element of trust involved. A knowing violation of that mutual trust.”

“Right,” Rose replied softly, nodding. “But it’s all got to be mutual.”

“Well, yes, otherwise any grievance isn’t a _betrayal_ per se, it just falls somewhere on the spectrum of asshattery. There’s generally got to be some degree of closeness on both sides, some level of personal attachment for all parties involved.”

“And you don’t think--you can’t think of anything--that doesn’t sound familiar to you at all, right now? Nothing recent comes to mind?”

The Doctor shrugged. “Nothing in recent memory, no.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly shrewd, suspicious. “Why are you asking me this?”

Biting back something between a hysterical laugh and a throat-clenching sob, Rose tried to think of a suitable response— _Because I just needed you to say what we are, Because I’d hoped I was wrong, Because I’m an unforgivably naïve idiot_ —but all that came out was, “Do you really want to know?”

“Okay, sorry to interrupt whatever undoubtedly fascinating thing you’ve got going on here,” said Vareem, pushing between Rose and the Doctor before he had a chance to do anything more than blink in confusion, “but d’you think we could get on with escaping, maybe? I really don’t fancy waiting around for another round of Champions to have a go at me.”

“Wait—where _are_ the other Champions?” called Mickey from his spot up ahead, scouring the landscape around them. “There were still a whole bunch of them right behind us. Seems like they should’ve caught up by now.”

“Any chance your people got to them?” Rose asked Dyana, ignoring the Doctor and the strange expression on his face.

“I really doubt it.”

“‘Your people’?” asked Mickey.

Nodding, Dyana looked about warily as she hoisted her boomerang into a defensive position. “Mercs, mostly. My sister and I paid them to infiltrate the Tournament disguised as Champions, smuggle in arms for those willing to defend themselves, and claim as many bride-prizes as they could to set them free. But we didn’t pay them to fight. They’d be far more likely to save their own skins and run.”

“Oh, who cares what happened to the bloody Champions?” Vareem said, exasperated. She grabbed Mickey by the hand and pulled. “We’ve probably just outrun them—we should go before they catch up!”

“No,” said the Doctor, his brow furrowed. Stepping back, he turned to examine the landscape behind them, where he and Mickey had entered the scene. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright floodlights. “No, they were right on our heels, and then we never saw them again after we crossed that ridge.” He pointed to the ridge in question, frowning. “Something’s happened, and we just didn’t notice.”

The Doctor took off toward the ridge, and Rose and Mickey—after exchanging equally bewildered glances—followed after, Rose’s wrist-chain clinking all the while. It trailed behind her like a tail as she climbed up the embankment after Mickey and the Doctor. When they crested the hill, Rose let out a gasp.

A sea of burnt-black earth met her eyes.

Gone were the trees, the grass, the rocks and fake castle-ruins. Instead, scorch marks marred the face of the entire land before them, thick black smoke rising and curling from the trenches like blood seeping from a wound. Scattered throughout were several piles of ash, stark and white against the darkened ground. Rose had a horrible, sickening feeling that some of those ashes used to be people.

“Oh my god. The dragon,” said Mickey breathlessly, holding his hand over his nose and mouth to block out the stench of smoke and burning things, things Rose didn’t want to think about. “It had to be the dragon, right? But how come we didn’t hear it?”

“They didn’t want us to,” the Doctor replied, glaring at the black screens surrounding the stadium.

“Why not?” asked Rose.

“Entertainment.” The Doctor spared her a single sharp glance before turning back the way they came, back toward the impatiently-waiting Dyana and Vareem. “It’s all about control!” he shouted back at them.

“So where’s the dragon now?” Mickey asked Rose.

As if it had only been waiting for someone to ask, at that exact second the entire stadium began to quake with the sound of a huge-throated roar.

Without even thinking, Rose clasped Mickey’s hand in fear, watched the Doctor freeze in place. Vareem drew close to Dyana, both of them scanning the skies, Dyana holding her boomerang at the ready. The roar tore through the stadium like a tidal wave, shaking the ground beneath their feet before it diminished into echoes, leaving the arena chillingly quiet and still.

Silence, then, except for how Rose could hear everyone holding their breath.

“Okay,” she said, pulling Mickey by the hand. “Now we’ve really got to—”

Another earsplitting howl sliced through the stadium, this time equaled in volume and ferociousness by the thousands of surrounding spectators shouting and stomping their feet. Rose still couldn’t see them, hidden behind their black screens as they were, but she could hear their voices chanting in excitement, almost as if they were one giant feral creature themselves; she could feel the tremors from their pounding feet sure as sure as she could feel great wings casting ripples through the air. The creature, however, remained invisible, its presence detectable only by the sounds of giant leathery bat’s-wings and the pungent smells of sulphur and smoke.

Suddenly the arena bucked as if shaken by an earthquake, throwing Rose and Mickey to their knees. Even the Doctor seemed to have trouble standing upright, stance wide and hands held out defensively as the earth rattled around him.

“Rose!” he shouted. “Grab Mickey and back away from the ridge--get out of there, now!”

But something had landed in the ash-field, and Rose and Mickey were both frozen, anchored in place as the invisible something crept toward them. Mickey might have sworn under his breath, or he may simply have said something along the lines of _How?_ or _What?_ or _Oh god_ _oh god_ , but Rose couldn’t be sure; she couldn’t hear much over the sounds of her heart pounding relentlessly in her ears, or the heavy whisper of something huge and monstrous slithering through the dirt.

Slowly, the air began to shimmer, a veil torn asunder to reveal something hideous beneath. The cloak melted away to reveal a dragon standing before them, easily twenty meters long and with a wingspan twice that wide, its rows and rows of massive spearpoint-teeth glittering in the floodlights and close enough to touch.

The dragon opened its mouth, and Rose wondered how long it would take to burn her to cinders, if she would feel her brain boiling in her skull.

A violent jerk on her wrist-chain and she was slipping backward and grabbing Mickey without a thought, pulling him with her over the ridge. The two of them tumbled down the embankment just in time to avoid a barrage of fire bursting from the dragon’s maw. Rose smelled the scorched-air above and bit back a cry at the thought that that was almost her and Mickey, that the dragon had nearly--that they’d almost--but her chain--the Doctor must have--

The Doctor pulled Mickey up roughly out of the dirt, helping Rose up after. He shoved her chain into her hand with a curt nod.

“Erm, thanks for yanking my chain?” Rose said weakly.

“Any time,” replied the Doctor. “Now, come on--time to run!”

He took off and Rose followed, running as fast as her legs could carry her, with a shout for Mickey to _move_. The three of them charged after Dyana and Vareem away from the dragon, toward the mountain and the Citadel. As they ran, Rose felt the ground quake beneath her feet once more, watched as a great inky-black shadow sailed over the rocks in front of them, a harbinger of the dragon soaring overhead.

“Doctor, wait,” panted Rose, the air burning in her lungs; “How are we supposed to get past a dragon?”

“No idea. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it!”

“But this is absolutely mad!” shouted Mickey. “What’s the point of this whole stupid thing if a great big dragon is just gonna--”

The dragon landed in front of them once more with an eardrum-shattering _whump_ , shockwaves ricocheting outward in a violent ripple that knocked over plaster trees and threw everyone bodily to the ground. The second they could move again, Dyana and Vareem scrambled back toward the others, Rose grabbing Dyana and pulling her in close. Snarling at each of the runners in turn, the dragon coiled itself against the base of the mountain, eyes flashing, smoke-plumes rising in tendrils from its nostrils.

“Ladies and gentlefolk and miscellaneous,” the announcer declared, voice booming overhead, “I’ve just heard from our fair city councilors. I’m pleased to announce that they have reached a verdict concerning our little stowaways. Would anyone like to know what it is?”

The crowd screamed in reply, a ritualistic chant of _Yes-yes-yes-yes_ surging through the stadium.

“Disqualified!” the announcer shouted, and the crowd went absolutely mad with sound. “That makes this an instant death round, honored guests!”

Amidst the wall of noise surrounding them, Rose and the Doctor and the others slowly stood, each of them assuming a ready stance. Rose grasped Dyana’s hand and squeezed it tightly, hoping to convey as much reassurance as she could; she reached back for the Doctor’s hand on instinct, only to find that he was already reaching for her. Their fingers intertwined, curling around each other with the chain cool and smooth between them, and even despite the danger, even in the face of almost certain death, strangely, something settled deep in Rose’s chest--she briefly thought, if she did have to die today, this would be a good way to do it, holding hands with one old friend and one new.

“Well, Doctor?” said Rose, not even bothering to mask the fear in her voice as the dragon opened its mouth, its throat glowing a bright flame-yellow hue. “Don’t suppose you’ve come up with some kind of brilliant plan in the last few minutes?”

The Doctor pursed his lips, fingers tapping nervously against the chain pressed between their palms. Then, his eyes widened, as if in realization.

“No,” he said, and a shot her a manic grin. “But I do have a spectacularly bad one.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation about the semantics of "betrayal" (in this and a later chapter) is heavily inspired by some writings by the very talented ksgsworld.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward silence fell between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the fires cracking and spitting behind the Doctor. He studied Rose’s face openly, searching, like her expression might reveal something her words didn’t.

.03 seconds’ worth of calculations later, the Doctor slipped the sonic out of his jacket-pocket, cranked it up to setting 183, aimed for the nearest giant speaker hanging overhead, and hoped, desperately, that this sort of thing worked better on dragons than it did on bears.

“Cover your ears!” he shouted, dropping Rose’s hand.

The instant she complied, the Doctor let loose a wave from the sonic, hitting the speaker with a feedback loop that split the air with a hideous _shriek_. The stadium filled with the cacophony of a hundred screaming banshees, a thousand nails scratching teeth-gritting lines down a blackboard in a screech that struck like a dentist’s whining drill to the teeth. Dimly, the Doctor registered Mickey and the others crying out, but their noises were swallowed by the many-voiced shouts from the audience, tens of thousands of people scrambling to shut out the horrible, godsforsaken racket without any success.

“What did you do?” Rose cried over the din, her eyes watering.

“Music to tame the beast!” the Doctor replied, pointing at the dragon up ahead. Howling in pain, it violently thrashed its head about, as if it might be able to dislodge the shrill-shrieking ghosts from its skull.

“You call this music?” Rose feebly tried to joke.

“That was figurative—but _tame the beast_ was quite literal!”

Rose’s eyes widened. “ _What_?”

The dragon crumpled into itself, backing up toward the mountain, eyes clenched shut against the clamor—this was the best chance they were going to get.

“Come on!” the Doctor shouted, grabbing Rose’s hand and bolting toward the dragon at a breakneck pace. Its wings flapped heavily against the ground, kicking up a great wind that tore at the Doctor’s hair and clothes and buffeted him at every turn, but he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just pulled Rose along and prayed that she could keep up, that the dragon would be blind to them just a little bit longer.

Then the ruckus all around them cut off like an unplugged radio.

Silence.

Slowly, the dragon’s eyes slid open, glazed and unfocused, but the Doctor set his jaw and kept his legs _pumping-pumping-pumping_ —if they were quick enough, if they could just get a little closer, then maybe, just maybe—

“Doctor!” Rose gasped behind him.

“ _Now_!” he shouted, leaping for the dragon’s neck.

Scrabbling at the ridges lining the creature’s spine, the Doctor hoisted himself up, reaching back for Rose as the dragon lifted its head to let out an angry roar. Wings flexing, the dragon coiled its haunches, catlike, a spring tensed and ready to burst, preparing to launch itself into flight. The Doctor lunged for Rose and clutched her about the waist just as the dragon sprang into the air. Rising higher with every beat of its wings, the dragon lurched, sending both Rose and the Doctor slipping. Feet sliding on the dragon’s slick scales, Rose cried out at the stomach-plummeting sensation of takeoff, at the sight of the landscape shrinking below. Sweat beaded and trickled down the Doctor’s neck as he mustered every last ounce of his strength to haul Rose up the rest of the way, fighting gravity for its sorely-wanted prize. He pulled and she heaved and finally she was safe—relatively speaking, anyway, as she straddled the dragon’s neck—but the Doctor didn’t dare let go of her waist.

“Please tell me you’ve got a good reason for this!” Rose shouted over her shoulder.

“I’ve got a good reason for this,” the Doctor replied automatically. Rose craned her neck to shoot him a disbelieving look and the Doctor offered her his very best charming grin. “Now, whatever you do, _don’t let go_!”

Soaring over the stadium, the dragon violently shook its head to dismount its riders. When that didn’t work, the creature barked out a great roar, one that made the Doctor’s teeth chatter. Muscles rippled and sinews strained beneath the Doctor, heat blossoming and glowing sickly yellow just beneath the slick purple scales, and the Doctor knew the dragon was preparing to let forth another fiery blast.

Smoke flying from its nostrils, the dragon circled back round, surging straight back for the mountain—right to Mickey and the others. The dragon opened its mouth to fire.

The Doctor ran a series of figures in his head at lightning-speed and threw the end of Rose’s wrist-chain out into the wind, his other hand clasping her by the ribs hard enough to bruise. Casting out into the windstream, the chain whipped right back round, looping through the dragon’s open mouth and hurtling right back toward Rose, who caught it with a gasp. Thanking his biology for the gift of long arms, the Doctor shot his hands around Rose to grab the chain by both ends.

“Help me pull it tight!” the Doctor commanded.

Rose obeyed, winding her manacled hand around the chain just before both of them yanked back as hard as they could. The dragon’s head snapped backward, spewing a stream of fire singing the air up above. Screeching, the dragon pulled up, soaring away from Mickey and the others.

“ _Yes_!” Rose shouted, craning her neck to double-check that Mickey was safe. He and Dyana and Vareem were only just visible from this vantage point, tiny colorful specks fleeing up the mountain, but they were moving, they were all right, they were _alive_.

“Oh my god, I thought we were all done for,” Rose said, her voice shaking.

“Oh, come on, have a little faith,” the Doctor laughed. “It would take more than a dragon to bring us down!”

“Right! So what’s step two, here?”

“No clue,” the Doctor said cheerfully, and he could just _hear_ Rose rolling her eyes.

The dragon lurched forward and without even thinking, the Doctor grabbed Rose round the waist again, steadying them both. A brilliant pink flush crept up the back of her neck and the Doctor wondered at that—her dress was awfully flimsy and thin, surely she couldn’t be overheated, somehow?—but no, he realized, it only happened after his hands slid down her belly, anchoring her close, her back pressed firmly against his chest, sandwiched so tightly together he could feel her heart hammering beneath his fingertips, against his ribs…

He suspected, suddenly, that her reactions had less to do with the imminent danger, and more to do with something else entirely.

The Doctor relaxed his grip. “Maybe we could give any lingering Champions a little scare, clear the way for Mickey and the others, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rose replied, clearing her throat. “Let’s give it a go.”

The Doctor shifted, ready to show Rose how best to steer the dragon, but she was already pulling on one end of her chain, guiding the dragon back around.

“You’re not the only one with surprise talents!” she shot over her shoulder with a cheeky grin.

The Doctor smiled, settling his hands and arms more comfortably around her. “Oh, you always surprise me, Rose Tyler,” he said quietly into her ear.

Rose blushed again.

 

***

 

Alien planets, Mickey had decided, were highly overrated.

First, there were the local customs. Certainly, Mickey knew Earth had its fair share of local customs that outsiders might consider silly, or harmful, or downright bad. But as far as he was aware, there were no officially-sanctioned Earth customs that involved drugging or kidnapping, certainly none that encouraged the use of Bronze Age weapons amidst Stone Age gender politics.

Then, you had the sports. Normally Mickey quite liked sports. He was, in fact, something of a sports aficionado; there were very few sports back on Earth that were incapable of holding his interest. But there also weren’t any sports back on Earth that involved running over a theme-park-movie-set, up a mountain, away from a real-live dragon.

Ah, yes. The dragon. That was another thing.

“Holy hell,” Mickey whispered. He shielded his eyes against the floodlights, the better to watch the dragon’s shadowy form as it retreated to the other end of the stadium, swooping low and scattering a cluster of lagging Champions. “Did you see that? Rose and the Doctor—!”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re buying us time,” said Dyana absentmindedly, scanning the mountainside for stray Champions. “We’d better take it!”

Mickey’s feet were loathe to move, strangely reluctant to turn away from the blip in the distance that was the dragon and its riders, but upon feeling a tug, Mickey glanced over to see Vareem pulling on his shirtsleeve, her eyes wide with fear and anxiety.

“Come on,” she urged. “Let’s go. Please!”

After another glance backward—there the dragon went again, diving low over the Champions until they ran back the way they’d come—Mickey nodded, and followed.

The three of them ran up the mountain, alternately sprinting and climbing and pulling themselves up over dirt and rocks and great moss-covered stones. Vareem galloped up ahead, cantering up the ever-steepening hillside as easily as a mountain goat, and Dyana followed closely behind, but Mickey lagged. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the dragon for very long. Something kept urging him to turn round, crawling uncomfortably down his spine; he wasn’t certain if it was sweat, or something else.

Instinctively, the company ducked as the dragon soared overhead, the ground trembling with every stroke of its great wings. With a great roar, the dragon dove low, sending cowardly Champions running in all directions, abandoning their would-be prizes without a second thought.

“So, erm,” Mickey huffed as the bride-prizes cheered and the dragon flew off once more. “What’s at the top of the mountain again?”

“The Citadel, where you’ll claim us as your wives,” replied Vareem.

Mickey’s feet chose that precise moment to wrap around each other. “Oh yeah?” he said, trying to sound casual as he pulled out of the stumble (and failing spectacularly).

“Don’t get too excited,” Dyana said drily. “All you do is hit the button and say the words. You’re setting us free right afterward.”

“Or we could talk about it,” protested Vareem. “I don’t mind sharing!”

Both women laughed at the flush that darkened Mickey’s cheeks and ears at that. Maybe alien planets weren’t so bad after all, he decided.

The earth shuddered beneath him once more, in time to the great slow _slap-slap_ of leathery dragon’s wings—and there it was again, that feeling of something pricking and trickling down the back of his neck. Mickey turned to watch the dragon as he climbed, but his hands and feet slowed to a crawl; squinting against the floodlights, he couldn’t quite make it out, but the dragon’s flight seemed shakier than before, its body sagging and dipping, and was Mickey imagining it, or was it glowing all over?

“Oh for goodness’ sake, come on!” pleaded Vareem. “We haven’t got time—”

“Wait,” said Mickey, watching as the dragon approached. Its flight grew slow and lazy, its body shaking violently. “Something’s wrong.”

The dragon flew overhead and disappeared round the mountainside.

Seconds later—

 _BOOM_.

The impact threw Mickey and the others through the air, each of them slamming into the earth amidst a deluge of rocks and earth. Panting for breath, Mickey cast himself in front of Vareem, shielding her with his body as much as he could as a second wave of debris flew their way. The _crack-snap-BOOM_ of the explosion echoed throughout the stadium and bounced off the walls, ringing in Mickey’s ears. He screwed his eyes shut against the noise and the dirt.

When the quaking and the noise stopped, Mickey looked up to see that the air was filled with smoke and ash, an ominous dark cloud forming on the other side of the mountain.

His heart skipped a few beats and he thought he might choke.

_An explosion—and Rose had been on the dragon when it—and there was no way she could have—_

“Rose,” Mickey panted, pushing himself off the ground, heedless of the scrapes and cuts that lined his body. He stumbled toward the darkening smoke-plume, gagging on the fire and ash that burned the back of his throat. “Rose! _Rose_!”

“Hush!” Dyana hissed furiously. “You’re gonna draw attention!”

“I don’t care!” Mickey croaked. Heart racing and lungs pumping until he was lightheaded from it, Mickey stumbled over churned earth and upturned rocks, inching ever-closer to the blast site.

“ _Rose!_ —”

“Hey!” Dyana said sharply, darting in front of him. “Hey, look at me!” She grabbed Mickey by the collar, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “ _Look at me_.”

Mickey forced his eyes to focus on Dyana’s face, forced his ears to hear something over the ringing and the rush of his blood and the screaming panic.

“Rose told me about that bloke she’s with, that Doctor fellow,” Dyana said slowly. “He’s some sort of miracle worker or something, right?”

Mickey shook his head, uncomprehending. “But, the explosion—”

“Rose said he’s done incredible things, got out of way worse scrapes than this, saved loads of people. And you’ve been there, you’ve seen it. You know what he can do. You trust him, don’t you?”

Shaking violently, Mickey struggled to think. A fleeting vision of Rose flashed in his mind, first strapped to a table while an android prepared to dissect her for scrap bits, then later, her eyelashes fluttering and lower lip quivering as she tried not to cry, stranded on a space station a thousand years away from home. He remembered the fear at being strapped to a table of his own, the sick feeling that settled in his stomach, a twin to the sensation that weighed heavy in his gut now.

He _wanted_ to say yes—but was that true anymore?

Before he had a chance to answer, the sounds of scuffling and murmuring at the base of the mountain let him know that they weren’t alone; both turned to see a fresh new batch of Champions running and climbing their way. And this time, none of them offered Dyana a salute.

“You two, get up the mountain,” Mickey said, taking off once more toward the smoke. “We’ll meet you up there!”

“Mickey—”

“I’m not leaving her!” Mickey shouted over his shoulder.

Dyana did not reply, but Mickey heard her swear under her breath. He glanced back to see her grabbing Vareem by the hand as they set up the mountain once more, the Champions quickly closing the gap between them. In any other situation, Mickey might have felt guilty for abandoning the women, but they were far handier with a weapon than he’d ever been. And there was no way in hell he was going up this damn mountain without Rose.

He prayed that she was all right.

 

***

 

“D’you really think Rose is okay?” Vareem asked as they climbed.

Dyana did not reply.

 

***

 

A groan tore from Rose’s lungs as she rolled onto her side. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck. Or, more accurately, like she’d been hurled into a mountainside.

Slowly, gingerly, she sat up, wincing at the dull aches and sharp pains that stabbed her seemingly everywhere. Her lungs stung with the stench of smoke and Rose coughed, wincing at the hurt that blossomed in her ribs after.

Where was she…? And where was the Doctor?

Trembling, Rose tried to stand but her legs shook and ached in protest, pain shooting through her body. Fingers running a path down her arms and torso and legs, she searched herself for damage, and while she certainly discovered a large number of tender cuts and feverish burns and bruises (her lonely bruise from before now had plenty of friends, she thought with a grimace), she was relieved to find nothing too serious, though whatever had gone down, it had taken most of her wrist-chain with it, leaving only a small length dangling limply behind. She suspected she’d got off pretty well considering what had happened, whatever that might be.

Seriously, though—what had happened?

Frowning, Rose struggled through the heavy fog in her mind, pulling together the puzzle-pieces of her memory so she could assemble them into a shape that made sense. They were riding the dragon, she remembered. They managed to steer the dragon and scare away some Champions, but then it started to shake and glow beneath them. And Rose had smelled smoke, and the scales beneath her had grown hot, and she’d heard the Doctor shouting, but after that...well, everything went grey after that. It was easy enough to figure out that she’d been thrown from the dragon, but Rose couldn’t recall anything that would explain _why_ she got thrown from the dragon, or where the Doctor went, or why the dragon had vanished without a trace, or why everything all around her was on fire.

All good questions, Rose thought dimly; good questions for the Doctor, if she could find him. _For all his talk of wandering off_ , she thought with a grump.

First things first, though, she needed to do something about this whole breathing situation. Rifling through her skirt for the cleanest patch of fabric she could find, Rose tore the flimsy material easily, holding it over her mouth as a makeshift handkerchief. Her lungs still stung and throat still burned, but at least it no longer felt like she was swallowing fire every time she inhaled.

She huffed grumpily into the handkerchief. Probably the fires were just another challenge set up by the City Council, as if this whole stupid thing wasn’t already dangerous enough. Honestly, did they want _any_ of their participants to survive?

Rising on wobbly legs, Rose squinted through the smoke and ash, searching for any hint of familiar brown pinstripes.

“Doctor?” she coughed. God, what she wouldn’t do for a cup of water right now; her throat was parched, thick, like a dried-up well. She called out again, stumbling across the uneven earth. She strained to catch a glimpse of him through the grey-hazed air.

Rose hoped he wasn’t hurt, or worse.

(No. She shook her head sharply, winced at the dizziness that flared up after. She didn’t have time to think like that.)

“Over here!” called the Doctor, and Rose sighed in relief. Stumbling, she followed the sound of his voice until his outline appeared in the smoke, followed by the rest of him.

Rose stifled a laugh. Here she was, covered in bruises and soot, and the Doctor had barely a speck of dirt on him. He could have floated through the air as easily as Mary Poppins with her umbrella, for as unrumpled and composed as he was. But of course, Rose thought—how else would it be?

“Now what do you think of this?” asked the Doctor, his tone perfectly conversational, as if they weren’t standing in a smoke-ridden battlefield. He held a small silver rectangle in one hand, regarding it with no small measure of curiosity as he turned it over and over, examining it from all angles. It gleamed a dull silver through the ash and mud, and amidst the bits of grass and debris, Rose could make out a series of numbers stamped into its face.

“Doctor?” Rose coughed. “What happened?”

“Found it half-stuck in the ground, nearly tripped on it,” the Doctor continued, and Rose struggled not to roll her eyes, because why on earth would he think she was asking about _that_? “Any thoughts on what it could be?”

Rose shrugged, coughing into her handkerchief. The Doctor might have been able to breathe in this nasty air well enough, but she certainly couldn’t, and something about him just standing there so casually, in the smoke, while she was struggling to breathe without gagging, irritated her a little bit. Or maybe that was just the ash drifting lazily into her eyes, or her bruises making themselves loudly known.

(Or really, couldn’t he wait for two seconds before he went tracking down the next stupid shiny thing? Her thoughts had shifted to him almost immediately after she regained consciousness—couldn’t he arse himself to think about her, or worry about her, even just a little bit? Weren’t friends supposed to do things like that?)

“Dunno,” Rose said, bouncing impatiently on her heels. He could stand here looking at weird little pieces of metal all he liked, but she wasn’t interested in waiting around to get caught by more Champions, or the dragon again, or whatever other nasty beasty things might come their way. “Looks like a dog tag or one of those pet chips or something?”

The Doctor’s eyebrow piqued in question. “Pet chip?”

“Yeah, like one of those things people put in their pets in case they run away or get lost. They’ve got numbers on them, like a barcode or something, and you scan ‘em to find out where the pets belong.”

“Curious,” the Doctor murmured thoughtfully, giving the piece another look-over before shoving it into one of his pockets. “Think it would work on humans, get them to stop wandering away or running off in the middle of would-be rescue attempts? Maybe I should get one for you, mmm?”

“Oi, I’m not a dog,” Rose grumped, her nose scrunched in disgust beneath the handkerchief.

“No, no, of course not. A dog knows how to stay,” the Doctor teased.

Any other day, Rose would have glared daggers at him, then laughed at the look of abashed sheepishness that crossed his face afterward. Now, she just sighed, heavily, gathering her singed skirts so she could plow on ahead. Onward, upward, anything was better than looking back. Right?

“Not a dog,” she repeated as she climbed, “nor a cat, nor a bird, nor a pet of any kind. Just another silly human trying to survive. Besides, I only ran off in the first place cos you took your sweet time rescuing me. I wasn’t gonna sit and wait around for another five and a half hours.”

For a moment, all she could hear behind her was the sound of fires crackling. Then, the Doctor’s plimsolls scuffed against the earth as he climbed after her. “Five and a half hours,” he said. “Oddly specific amount of time.”

Rose forged on ahead with a heavy sigh. She hadn’t really meant for those words to spill out; she wasn’t too keen on nagging or fighting, especially right now. But there was just something about being compared to an animal that rubbed her the wrong way.

 _Because that’s what he really thinks of you_ , she thought irritably. _His sweet little pet, nips at his heels and knows a few tricks and is awfully cute when she tries. Sit, Rose. Speak, Rose! Play dead! Good girl!_

 _Not to mention the number of owners that have no trouble leaving their pets behind when it’s time to move away_.

Lost in thought, Rose didn’t notice the crumbling earth until it was too late and she was already slipping. But the Doctor grabbed her hand before she could slide too far, setting her back upright.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” Rose grumbled, pulling her hand away.

“You sure? You seem a little—”

“I said I’ve got it.”

The Doctor frowned. “You didn’t happen to sustain a concussion in the fall, did you?”

“Would it make a difference if I had?” she snapped.

With a great huff, the Doctor stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “All right,” he said impatiently. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or have I got to guess?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Let’s just keep moving.”

“Nope, not until you tell me what’s eating you.”

“Why, are you going to pretend to care now?”

The Doctor blinked in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I care!”

Humming impatiently, Rose rubbed at her temple, pushing against the ache threatening to blossom there. God, but she was thirsty. She was going to get a migraine soon from the dehydration, she could just tell.

“It’s nothing, forget it,” Rose sighed. “Let’s just go, yeah?”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on, though? One minute you’re fine, next minute, it’s the end of the world—you said I hurt you, chattered a whole bunch of veiled nonsense about _abandonment_ and _expiration dates_ and _betrayal,_ and now you won’t say anything at all. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Guess you don’t know everything about everything, then,” Rose shot back, stepping around the Doctor so she could continue her climb.

The Doctor groaned in frustration as he followed after her. “Oh, excellent, more opaque, snippy little barbs. Love those. So wonderfully helpful! Honestly, you’ve been a right pain ever since—”

“France?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said, impatience evident in the tension of his voice. “Since France, whatever that’s got to do with anything.”

Rose laughed nastily. “Right, yeah, whatever could France have to do with anything?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Rose,” the Doctor sighed, and Rose heard his feet scuff to a stop behind her. “Just spit it out already!”

Rose slowed to a halt, worrying her lip. “Do you really want to talk about this right now? Or ever?”

She turned back to look at the Doctor, found him standing with crossed arms and furrowed brow and pinched mouth, as if to say, _Get on with it, then_.

Well. If he was going to give her an honest-to-goodness opening, then Rose should take it, right? No matter what the sick little feeling in her stomach said. She could do this. _She_ wasn’t the one afraid to have a proper conversation.

(But if she really wasn’t afraid, then why hadn’t she said anything yet?)

She pulled down the handkerchief and twisted it in her hands, grateful for something to distract them with. “You left Mickey and me behind,” Rose said quietly. “On the space station, when you jumped through that mirror.”

“Yes, and?”

Taken aback, Rose laughed uncertainly. “And it was sort of a stupid thing to do? And it hurt our feelings? And it made us scared? And we were worried about you? And we didn’t know if or when you’d get back, or we’d get home again? That enough _and’s_ for you?”

“But it all turned out for the best, didn’t it? Everything’s fine, everyone’s fine, it all worked out in the end. So what’s the problem?”

“You didn’t know any of that when you jumped through, though,” Rose insisted. “For all you knew, you could have been stuck for hundreds or even thousands of years!”

“Nah,” said the Doctor, waving a hand dismissively. “I would have just hitched a ride with an earlier me. I’m bound to show up in France every other decade or so.”

“A decade?” Rose asked, her voice shaking. “Maybe that’s just a blink for you, but that would’ve been a long time for Mickey and me, stranded on that station.”

“Nope! The Emergency Programme would have kicked in long before that, taken you right back home, quick as you like,” the Doctor countered, stepping up the mountainside until they stood almost face-to-face. “Then hey presto, my younger self stops for a visit at merry old Versailles after a few years in my timeline, brings me back straightaway in your timeline. You wouldn’t have even had time to miss me.”

“Want to bet?” Rose muttered sadly.

An awkward silence fell between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the fires cracking and spitting behind the Doctor. He studied Rose’s face openly, searching, like her expression might reveal something her words didn’t.

She looked away. “It’s just...why’d you have to do it that way? You didn’t have to leave me and Mickey behind. We could’ve taken the TARDIS to a nearby town or something, or hopped back to Versailles a few minutes before the time windows opened up, right?”

“Er, technically, yes, I suppose either of those options would have worked,” the Doctor conceded, tugging uncomfortably on one ear. “Still, what’s done is done. The timelines are protected, that’s what matters.”

“And...is that all that matters?” Rose asked. She knew she was treading on thin ice; instead of retreating, she inched out a tentative foot, exploring just a little further. “Is that the only reason you did it, I mean?”

“Well, yes. What else would there be?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Rose steeled herself. She would have to give a little to get a little, she knew; she couldn’t expect to make any progress unless she ventured out onto the ice properly, ignoring the spiderweb-cracks that fanned out beneath her feet. She wrapped her arms around herself as a defense against the chill.

“I wasn’t really thinking of a _what_ ,” she said slowly, “so much as a _who_.”

The Doctor arched an eyebrow in suspicion and Rose braced herself, oh god, here it came, the judgment and disgust, the awkwardness, the rejection; Rose could feel it washing over her like a plunge into Arctic waters.

“Ah,” said the Doctor, quietly. “ _Ah_.”

Rose gulped.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor said, his voice soft, contemplative. Then, Rose watched as his face split into a slow and wicked grin. “Rose Tyler,” he said again, and now his words were warm with mischief. “You _are_ jealous!”

“Wait—what?” spluttered Rose, her cheeks flushing hotly beneath his gaze. “No! No, that’s not at all what I—”

“So Mickey was right. Fascinating,” the Doctor marveled, chuckling. “Travel with humans for a millennia, you’d think you’d be used to it all by now, but you lot still surprise me sometimes. But that’s what’s been bothering you this whole time? The jealousy?”

“No,” Rose said stubbornly, rubbing her hands over her gooseflesh-prickled arms. How could she blush so hotly and still feel so damn cold all at the same time?

“And to think, I almost fell for your little charade earlier,” the Doctor laughed. “Rose Tyler, _jealous_!”

“Was not,” Rose muttered, wrapping her arms around herself more snugly.

The Doctor smiled a knowing smile and shrugged out of his overcoat, stepping forward to drape it around Rose’s shoulders. “Were so,” he teased.

“ _Was not._ ”

Stepping nearer, the Doctor drew the coat tightly around Rose, pulling the lapels together across her chest. His hands never touched her, never so much as brushed over the fabric, but they hovered so close Rose could practically feel their heat through the coat. She was suddenly blisteringly aware of his proximity and just how much flesh her thin silk dress exposed. She begged her body not to flush any further, not to give her away.

“Were so,” said the Doctor again, beaming in self-satisfaction, and god, he was so stupid and pretty and smug, Rose couldn’t decide if she should smack him or kiss him. It didn’t help that his coat was lovely and warm and smelled of him, that curious clean smell somewhere between the smoke of a wood stove and freshly fallen snow, and his hands were stalling on the coat-lapels, like he was reluctant to move away, and he was standing close enough that they were certainly breathing the air from each other’s lungs, and—

And _god_ , what was _wrong_ with her?

Years of repressing these ridiculous notions—it had only gotten worse after he came out looking like this, all fantastic hair and flirtatious grin and boyish charm, but those feelings had always been there, _always_ , even if Rose had done her damnedest to stomp them down—and all it took to undo that hard work was two bare minutes’-worth of conversation and meaningful looks? Just how many other silly human girls had thought all the same things, fallen into all of the same traps as her? How many of them had trailed after him just like this, inches away and universes apart, fantasizing about grabbing him by the hair and snogging that stupid grin off his face? How many of them felt these feelings and dreamed these dreams only to be overcome later with disgust and self-loathing, when they remembered that he would never feel anything for them in return, that he was so much older and wiser and grander and so much more _alien_ than any of them could ever be?

But the way he looked at her, with a smile twinkling in the corners of his eyes—but the way he said her name—but the way he always grabbed her hand—

With a shake of her head, Rose squeezed her eyes shut. If she couldn’t see him, then she couldn’t get distracted by his stupid hands and stupid hair and stupid kissable mouth.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re trying to deflect. Answering my questions with more questions, and turning everything around on me, and trying to get my attention elsewhere, and—and—and other distract-y things.”

“Mmm, well-put. Is it working?”

Rose opened her eyes to find him watching her still, his gaze hooded and dark, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. And with the way he kept glancing down at her lips—well, if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was planning to kiss her.

“Yes,” she admitted breathlessly, and prepared to drown.

And almost as if she had looked into the heart of the TARDIS all over again, she could sense how this would all play out, could track each and every fateful string weaving in and out in this little tapestry of theirs; she could catalogue the incline of his head, the subtle dilation of his pupils, the flutter of his lashes as he calculated optimum angles and pressure and friction. She could feel how his grip would tighten around the coat lapels, nervous but sure, closing what little space remained between them. His breath would kiss her lips first, his mouth after, pressing gently. Rose’s ribs would seize in a gasp, and her hands would land on his chest, striving for balance as shock shot through her; already she could feel the scratchy wool of his suit beneath her fingers, fibers clinging to the ridges of her fingerprints like they’d never let go. His double pulse would hammer beneath her fingertips, speeding up at her touch, and her own pulse would crash thunderously in her ears. Rose imagined how the Doctor’s hands would drop to her waist as he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth against hers, and she thought of the buzz that would fill her head at the sensation, a feeling like fizzing and falling and flying worse than anything she’d experienced in the air just moments before. He would pull her snug against him and she would bury her fingers in that glorious hair of his, because yes, she had been looking, of course she had, who was she kidding, anyway? And when she would pull back for a lungful of air, because not everyone is blessed with a respiratory bypass, she would only have half a moment before the Doctor chased after her, and the kiss would transform into an urgent thing, the Doctor coaxing her tongue into his mouth because even if he’d never admit, it drove him just a little bit mad every time she trapped her tongue between her teeth in that cheeky little grin of hers, and it was his turn this time. He would kiss her and taste her and cling to her as if she might vanish at any moment, and that would be it. She’d be gone. She’d be lost. There would be no coming back, not for her, not ever.

(And then, because this really was just a distraction—because even if he was looking at her like that, it wasn’t Rose he was thinking of—then it would all be over, and even though it would burn and ache in Rose’s chest every time she thought about it, the Doctor would pretend it had never happened. They would never talk about it again.)

The Doctor leaned in and, cursing herself with every hurtful invective she could summon, Rose turned her head.

She stepped back.

A moment passed in horrible silence. Finally, eyes wide with surprise, the Doctor backed off. His lips parted as if he might speak, probably to ask any number of questions, but whatever words might have come out, he must have swallowed them. Pocketing her makeshift handkerchief, Rose unwound the Doctor’s fingers from the coat lapels hanging about her neck, pulling his hands away from her body.

She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore.  

“Just, erm,” Rose started to say, and stopped. She was trembling again, though she certainly wasn’t cold any longer. She closed her eyes; maybe that would make things easier.

“Look,” she sighed. “Doctor, I—”

“Oh my god, Rose!” a familiar voice rang out, and Rose turned to see Mickey sprinting toward her round the mountainside, coughing and fanning smoke out of his eyes. “Rose, you’re alive!”

Rose risked a glance at the Doctor, only to find him staring at her in confusion.

Oh, god. Why did Mickey have to find them _right now_?

“God, I thought you were dead,” Mickey laughed, pulling Rose into a hard hug. “What the hell happened? And where’d the dragon go? And how the heck did you manage to survive that explosion?”

“Explosion?” Rose asked, startled. “Wait—is that why everything’s on fire?”

“Well, yeah—don’t you remember—?”

“Ah, yes, the dragon might’ve exploded a bit,” interrupted the Doctor, “but we were thrown off long before that happened. Now that’s what I call luck!”

“ _The dragon_ _exploded_?” Rose asked in alarm, but the Doctor just brushed past her, overlapping her words with, “So the others have gone ahead, then? Brilliant! Shall we play a bit of catch-up?”

“That’s the plan,” Mickey replied, but his eyes kept darting to Rose’s face, as if he was trying to puzzle something out. (That made two of them, didn’t it?)

“Excellent, good plan, very astute.” The Doctor grabbed Rose by the hand and took off at a sprint, pulling her along. “Let’s go claim some wives, shall we!”

“Don’t forget, we’ve got more Champions to look out for as well!”

“That’s what makes it fun!” the Doctor shouted back at Mickey. “Now come along, Mr. Smith—we’ve got a Championship to win!”

 

***

 

“Where _are_ they?” Vareem asked, chewing nervously on her lip as her hooves tapped an impatient tattoo on the citadel floor. Not that Dyana could hear it; the speakers had switched back on sometime in the last few minutes and now the chatter and cheers of the audience could be heard again, their voices bouncing around the walls of the citadel and the stadium and Dyana’s skull. Between that and the stream of Champions cycling through, screaming their victory through the speakers each time one of them slammed the great red button and claimed their prize, Dyana was about to claw her eardrums out.

“Shouldn’t Mickey be here by now?” Vareem continued. “Should we be worried?”

“Yeah, we should,” Dyana replied, peering down the mountainside. Several specks moved up the mountain, running their way, but they were still too far off for her to make out whether they were friend or foe.

Vareem dragged her hands through her hair. “What about one of your people, can they claim us?”

“If they haven’t all already come and gone, yeah, sure. But I think they all probably got out in the first wave.”

Rolling her eyes, Vareem groaned. “This was a really rubbish plan, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, next time someone tries to enslave us, you can come up with the plan. Okay?”

Vareem mumbled something under her breath, but beneath the overwhelming susurrus of the murmuring crowd, Dyana didn’t catch it; besides, she was too busy watching the approaching specks, now close enough that they were starting to take form. Those closest to her, she could identify as Rose and her friends—so Rose and her Doctor had survived after all, what a pleasant surprise for once—but the others closing in—

“Rose, behind you!” Dyana shouted, snatching the boomerang out of Vareem’s hands before she ran down the mountainside. She drew her arm back, ready to throw her weapon at the nearest Champion, but they had closed the gap and now this one was too close to the Doctor, that one was too close to Mickey, and more were coming, all of them focused on the two men.

“Take her!” said the Doctor, shoving Rose into Dyana’s arms before several Champions seized him by the arms and legs. The audience cheered all around them, clapping and howling as the Champions pinned the Doctor’s arms behind his back. “Get up to the citadel!” he shouted.

“What about you two?” Rose shot back.

“We’ll be fine—just _go_!”

Dyana yanked Rose away just before the Champions wrestled the Doctor to the ground, forcing Mickey down as well. One Champion withdrew a sword from its sheath and the audience roared.

“They’re gonna kill them!” Rose cried, pulling back, but Dyana just gritted her teeth and dragged her along.

“Oh, no you don’t!” she shouted, heaving Rose up the mountain with every ounce of her considerable strength. “I will be _damned_ before I let this Championship claim another friend!”

“We’ve got company,” said Vareem the moment they hit the citadel; darting over to the other side of the floor, Dyana looked down the mountain to see yet more Champions rushing up toward them. Soon, they would be surrounded—

Soon they would all be claimed.

Next to her, Rose balled her hands into fists, watching frantically as Champions approached from all sides. “Do we fight?” she asked. “What do we do?”

She looked to Dyana for guidance, but Dyana’s thoughts were empty, her brain totally at a loss amidst the never-ending noise from the audience and their doom slowly encroaching upon them.

“I—I don’t know,” she said numbly, her voice barely audible over the audience. She’d half-expected to die in this Championship; she certainly had not planned to get this far, only to be captured now. “There’s no one else to claim us now, I don’t know, I don’t—”

“Wait, wait,” Vareem breathed, her face lighting up. “Oh, ladies. We’re all idiots.”

Before anyone could ask her what she meant, just as the audience began screaming for blood and glory while the first of the Champions crossed the citadel threshold with their weapons drawn, Vareem flew to the center of the room and hit the red button with a great big _smack_.

“We claim ourselves!” she shouted, and the speakers boomed her voice echoed throughout the arena, bouncing it over and over between the stadium walls. “We are our own Champions! _We claim ourselves_!”

The Champions stilled and the audience fell quiet around them. Silence descended with a thickness you could feel, a heaviness you could taste.

Dyana’s throat seized up, her breath trapped inside.

Did Vareem just—did she really—

“Oh my god,” Rose muttered, eyes wide in shock. “Did that actually work?”

Vareem gulped loudly. “Guess we’ll find out.”


End file.
